Heart of Gold
by CaptainOzone
Summary: Bk3 of Prophesized. Camelot has slowly adjusted to their new Court Sorcerer and the freedom of magic, but prejudice hides in the darkest shadows, with treason and betrayal at its side. However, when Dark magic gets thrown into the mix and when the witch comes out to play... prejudice really is the least of their worries. Merlin!whump/BAMF; Arthur!whump.
1. Only Fitting

AN: THIS IS NOT A SONG FIC/ POEM FIC. AND IT IS NOT A DEATH FIC EITHER. Don't freak out. LOL.

This is a poem I wrote and had published in my high school's literary magazine. **This actually belongs to me, so if you wish to use it, please, please ask**. I wrote this in memory of a good friend, someone who taught me the true meaning behind the phrase 'heart of gold'. I thought it would be fitting to post, seeing as it is the title of this fic and actually holds a lot of the values that I see in Arthur and Merlin's friendship.

The actual fic will begin in the next chapter.

* * *

><p>"…<em>atque in perpetuum… ave atque vale" (and so forever… hail and goodbye)<em>

_Catullus Poem 101_

**A Heart of Gold:**

**In memoria Gloriae**

With a death,

Brings agonizing breath.

Torn hearts, faces stained

With the tears of the pained.

The hole hard to mend

When the one you love finds their end.

Hurt unbearable,

Hurt not passable.

But sometimes you see

Really what it is to be…

A heart of gold

A friend of old

A brave, strong soul

Sweet and whole

A fighter

A believer

Free-willed and steadfast

To the very last

To just hold on a moment longer

Shines through the stronger

Joyful and bright

As a ray of sunlight

Glorious heart of gold

Memories hold

A love so persisting

The bond eternally existing

Pure, true, and dear

Always here

Forever

In memoria Gloriae

A heart of gold

And a friend of old


	2. Predator and Prey

Disclaimer: IDOM

Author's Note: Well, I am probably the biggest liar ever. This is the 3rd installment to Prophesized: Heart of Gold. (I WOULD NOT START THIS WITHOUT READING THE FIRST TWO FICS OF THIS SERIES) Within hours of posting "Her Doom", in which I said that I was at loss as to how to continue this series, I missed it, and with a little inspiration and goading from a friend on fanfiction as well as a friend back in IL, this idea popped up. :) I also said to some that I'd try writing most of this before posting...well, you can see how well THAT idea worked. :P Updates may take longer than they did for PMMP because this story is only an outline in my head at the mo. Details are slowly but surely filling the gaps.

This story is evolved from 3 ideas: 1) Merlin BAMF. I have made references throughout this entire series about getting Merlin truly angry; it's about time I made him angry. ;) And Merlin's BAness in 4x13 with Agravaine was simply inspiring. I love him as a BA. 2) Arthur whump. When I first started reading fanfiction here, I was horrified at the amount of Merlin whump in comparison to Arthur whump...and I'm just adding to it, I suppose. I've decided Merlin may have some whump as well. So, it's safe to say there'll be bromance galore. 3) A political mission to another kingdom in which we see Arthur-Merlin's relationship through the eyes of an outsider and hear their thoughts to Merlin's appointment as court-sorcerer and Arthur's decision to lift the ban on magic. So...that is it. :D Will Morgana make an appearance? I thought not at first, but I'm not so sure now.

So, thank you to and big hugs for ForIHaveOvercomeTheWorld, my wonderful Sarah (bookwormlover), who first introduced me to Merlin, and even my little brother, who finally read SMN and PMMP and offered me very kind words; for without them and all of you wonderful reviewers and readers, I would not be posting this.

This story takes place a few weeks to a month after the events of PMMP, and I hope to write from Merlin's POV more often than Arthur's, but we'll have to see how it works. This chapter is mostly meant for lighthearted humor. Most of it is a flashback.

So with that obnoxiously long note: enjoy "Heart of Gold".

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><p><strong><span>Predator and Prey<span>**

Through narrowed eyes, the young man searched meticulously, sweeping his sharp eyesight across the flood of bustling servants and carefree nobility. His sword may have been lying lax in its scabbard, but the dazzling sapphire orbs were ever vigilant. He stood tense, as though he were a deer ready to bolt at the sight of a hunter's crossbow.

For a man so focused, so ready and prepared for danger, you would expect his face to be one of determination, his lips a thin, tight line of seriousness. It was quite the opposite, in fact. The strange young man's lips were turned upwards in a half-scowl of exasperation and annoyance and a half-smirk of good-humor and amusement.

This man knew Danger; it was always there, hovering like an ominous storm cloud…just above that golden shield, always trying to breach its warm protection. The young man was used to Danger's presence (even more so than the shield's), and he did not fear it.

No, he didn't fear Danger because somewhere in his subconscious, he realized that wherever Danger stalked, Adventure often followed. Danger and Adventure were like desperately passionate lovers, so deeply intertwined that it was rather pointless to differentiate between the two. Together in lust, they thrilled the blood with their laughter and chilled it with their snarls.

It was cleverness in the face of their manipulative, addictive laughs and steadiness in face of their terrifying, horrid snarls that proved true bravery, and this man's stance confirmed his familiarity and confidence when dealing with both the laughter and the snarls. It was the stance of a man who knew the value in silence, who by no means underestimated the need to remain motionless when in hiding. It was the stance of a talented predator, who had just as much experience being the prey.

It all depended on the situation really…or on who you talked to—on whether this man was predator or prey—but with that scowling smirk or that smirking scowl (however you'd prefer to see it), it was easy to see which he was today.

And he was closing in on his prey.

Suddenly, the little turn in the young man's mouth widened to a toothy grin that, if you didn't know him, looked somewhat insane and feral. Well, all who _did_ know the King also knew that he had quite good reason to be a mite insane…

~…~

"MERLIN!"

He knew he had been caught, and Arthur knew he knew. The blonde King felt a surge of animalistic pleasure at the sight of his lanky court sorcerer's widened blue eyes, the accompanying wince and grimace, and the curse on his lips.

As Merlin darted away, Arthur barked a loud laugh and barreled after him, causing nobles and servants alike to sidestep, press themselves against the corridor walls, and pull their skirts and laundry out of the way. Arthur hardly acknowledged them, their rolling eyes, and their hidden giggles—it was becoming a familiar sight and a daily practice…and they all knew to expect a wild morning on the days the council met.

It was no secret that Camelot's court sorcerer held little patience for the meetings, and Arthur had predicted this behavior far before anyone else had. Merlin seemed to have his own agenda, and when meetings didn't fit to that agenda—which mostly involved Arthur's and Camelot's protection—he laid low, hid, and hoped to goodness no one found him. Of course, Arthur was the only one able to get his ass into that council room on _those _days.

But Merlin was unwavering in his duty and his responsibilities, and when things were serious, he lost his goofy obstinacy. He would show up at the meetings of his own eager volition—without force—when he knew he was needed, whether a real threat appeared or magic was involved. Even then, Merlin was antsy. Arthur didn't expect anything less, really. Since he was used to operating secretly and alone, it wasn't always easy for him to "waste time" talking before he acted…

Not that his preference to 'act first, talk later' had changed much anyway.

Arthur couldn't help but laugh as he sprinted after his friend…

~…~

It had been a peaceful week after his coronation. In fact, their biggest enemy was one that no sword or no spell could strike, one that still stalked them daily, unseen and untouchable. There had been no violence, but Arthur had felt anxious anyway: Danger had been long overdue (they were living in Camelot, after all).

When it finally came, it decided to come three hours before dawn.

Arthur was woken to pandemonium; screams and crashes resonated through the city. Pounding and doors slamming echoed throughout the castle corridors as more and more awoke to the sounds coming from outside.

All the commotion? One stray, destructive wyvern.

As it was Arthur's first real chance to prove how strong of a King he truly was concerning the defense of Camelot, the council chambers were just as hectic as the Lower town, where the beast was having its fun terrorizing citizens. Arthur was calm and collected—though a bit disoriented and sleepy after having just rolled out of bed—until he stepped into those chambers.

Suddenly, shrieks and yells of advice and utter panic surrounded him. Orders were tossed about the room, and arguments erupted between knights. The noise came from all sides and bombarded him, crashing like an eternal ocean wave over his head; he could neither get a word in without being yelled over nor could he even hear himself think.

Simply put: it had been chaos.

He only vaguely remembered Merlin entering with Gaius. Bed-headed and just as bleary-eyed as his King, Merlin's midnight blue cloak was thrown on over his white nightshirt, but the idiot somehow had forgotten to put on boots over his woolen socks.

It was rather incredible that he actually noticed Merlin and the details of his wardrobe at all. By that time, he was at his wit's end. His head spun from lack of sleep and the onslaught of noise, and the addition of several Knights, who had finally managed to roll themselves out of bed and join the party, hardly helped the panicked confusion.

It was obvious that Merlin had not been pleased. Arthur saw his bemused face upon entering collapse to a mask of poorly concealed irritation, and the waves of frustration that rolled off of him only added to the atmosphere as fuel would a fire. He knew that at one point or another, Merlin tried to grab his attention, but Arthur distractedly brushed him off in favor of gaining some control over the over-reactors.

Arthur had been completely unaware that Merlin had even left until the young warlock, grumbling under his breath and cradling a broken hand to his chest, reentered the council chambers with his familiar loud crashing and clumsy stomping.

Everyone, all of whom that had finally been calmed and had been about to carry out their tasks and orders, froze and stared as Merlin's muttering—clearly magic, judging by the glow of gold in his eyes—made the bones in his wounded hand sickeningly pop and snap back into place.

Finally, while he tenderly flexed his still bruised hand and frowned at the incomplete healing, he said brightly, "It's gone." His stormy eyes glinted as he met the group's gazes, and he smiled sheepishly. "I'll probably have to apologize to some traumatized Lower townsfolk when the sun rises, but otherwise—"

"_What?_" Arthur interrupted, eyebrows rising to his hairline. "What do you mean _gone_?"

Merlin, of course, sighed sarcastically. "Exactly what I said."

Before Arthur could retort, Merlin, with blazing eyes and a sharp, but quiet voice that cut through the room like a spear, addressed the members of the council and knights, "You should be ashamed of yourselves. One wyvern. One. Camelot's been through hell and back. We've faced immortal armies, Dragons, sorcerer attacks… and survived to tell the tale, and we get riled over _one wyvern_?

"Do you not trust Arthur?" He challenged daringly. "What if this was Morgana's army at our doorstep…or a giant flesh-eating demon? Would we react like this?"

"Hell no!" Gwaine shouted enthusiastically, obnoxiously, and drunkenly.

Merlin struggled to keep his mouth in a firm line. "We'd act," he continued softly, "Or we'd be dead, enslaved, eaten alive…Need I go on?"

Having been suitably chastised, everyone but Gwaine, Lancelot, and Percival, the only three of Arthur's most trusted Knights present and the only three that had tried to rectify the crazed and panicky situation that they had been in, lowered their gazes from Merlin's accusing, lecturing eyes and avoided their King's altogether. The three Knights, on the other hand, whistled under their breath at Merlin's outburst, and Gaius met Geoffrey's eyes before rolling his own. Arthur, for his part, was grateful for Merlin's scolding…and couldn't help but feel proud of his friend.

"Good," Merlin said with a smile, "We're lucky it wasn't a real emergency, and I certainly hope you've learnt something from this. Because if something like this happens again, I'll…"

He began to flounder for a suitable threat before Arthur finished for him, "Do something unspeakably horrible to you?"

Merlin scowled at Arthur and then broke into a huge, rather diabolical grin that made council members start in fright, but then blush as they realized that Arthur's statement had not been a real threat, but a _joke_.

"So the wyvern, Merlin?" Arthur asked.

Chagrined, shocked, and curious eyes fixed themselves onto Merlin, who began, "Since you were all otherwise preoccupied, I decided to take care of it."

"How?" Lancelot asked.

"You might recall that I tried to remind you that I'm a Dragon Lord?"

"Ah!" Gwaine exclaimed gruffly. "Wyverns are the cousins of dragons."

Merlin's eyebrows rose meaningfully. "They are untamed and have a much smaller intellect than the dragons—to put it nicely—and though they don't breathe fire and can be nothing more than pests, they can cause plenty of destruction when they want to. Their most endearing quality, however," he added cynically, "is their tendency to put on the guise of obedience before deliberately disobeying me.

"This one took a little convincing, but once I located its pack for it, it left easily. Simple as that."

Arthur snorted and gestured to Merlin's wounded hand. "I beg to differ. What happened there, Merlin?"

With reddening cheeks, Merlin looked down at his hand. "I—um—gave it a little smack across the snout."

There had been one second of disbelieving silence before the whole room burst into either roars of laughter or giddy, nervous giggles.

"It was a wyvern with an attitude!" Merlin defended himself. "It was cheeky, naughty, lazy, _rude_…"

"Are you describing yourself or the wyvern?" Arthur teased, much to the amusement of Gaius, Lancelot, Percival, and Gwaine.

Merlin ignored the rhetorical question. "It deserved a good whack for trying to be smart with me. I was called out of my warm bed for—quote—'an emergency', and after waking far too early—I didn't even get up this early in Ealdor to feed the livestock or work in the fields, I should have you know—to be greeted by mindless screaming, a rebellious, lost wyvern trying to steal chickens, frightening innocents, destroying some property, and ignoring me as though I was a bothersome fly…well, that was just the last straw. Dumb beast. Broke my hand and made me look completely mad."

Suddenly, Merlin's lips twitched into a small, caustic smile. "So, there's no approaching doom. Minimal physical and mental damage. Wyvern gone and with its pack, which is now flying to the White Mountains. No one injured beyond the minor bruise and scrape. May I go back to bed now, Sire?"

All around Arthur, council members, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, were in a state of shock; perhaps it had been induced partly by Merlin's disregard for courtesy and respectful tact, but Arthur had known that it had more likely been his modest story. They had stared at Merlin, who had single-handedly dealt with the nasty wyvern and who seemed to think nothing of it.

No, Merlin hadn't cried for praise or recognition—he just wanted to get back to sleep (and avoid the attention, Arthur saw), which was nothing less than Arthur himself wanted.

"Thank—thank you, Merlin. You may go. Just…report to me after you apologize to those townsfolk later. Though—to be honest—I'm still uncertain as to why you would have to. You helped them. They must've seen that."

Something in the air had changed; it became tense, expectant…like that of prey just being found out by a predator, and it sent shivers down his spine. It was tight and suffocating, reluctant and fearful.

Merlin just gave him a wry, lopsided half-grin. "All they saw was an annoyed, mad, shoeless, sloppy sorcerer yelling in an unknown language, in an undignified way, and then backhanding a small dragon-critter on the nose."

"Exactly," Arthur smirked, teasing despite the atmosphere, "I would have laughed and then thanked him for the entertainment."

Merlin's grin widened. "You would, wouldn't you? It's too bad that not everyone has your sense of humor."

Despite the goofy, good-humored eyes, the double meaning in Merlin's words did not escape Arthur's notice, and he hid a frustrated sigh. The King and warlock exchanged a look that carried a promise to speak later, and with a rueful smile, Arthur jerked his head to the door in dismissal.

After bowing his head of messy raven-hair, Merlin turned and left, and Gaius, with one last shared and loaded with Arthur on the state of his ward's mental health, copied and followed him out. They could hear the two arguing about Merlin's stiff hand and his behavior all the way down the corridor.

When their voices faded, Arthur studied the remaining people, who had immediately stopped their whispering under his gaze and were watching him warily. And for good reason. He felt he knew each and every mind before him, and he didn't like what he saw. Rage gripped him.

Battling not to lose his temper, he began, "He may be mad, but he's rather brilliantly so. Don't doubt his abilities as court sorcerer, as an advisor, or as a friend. His wisdom and humor are invaluable and without equal. Don't forget that."

With that, Arthur excused himself before he would be tempted to slap those looks off their faces, and he left behind a court which was slowly adapting and transforming to change…

~…~

Yes, after that incident, Arthur could see why Merlin _still _preferred to operate alone and in secrecy; although, if the past few weeks were anything to go by, it was getting easier for Merlin to be himself, to use and talk about magic in front of acquaintances and strangers, and to involve others in his magical missions. In addition, the court was steadily recognizing him as a motivating force in Camelot and beginning to open their hearts to him. They respected him, loved him even, and they even sought him out specifically for a whole manner of topics, conversations, and advice.

That is, if they could find him…or catch him.

Arthur finally managed to burst out of the compact hallways and raced through an empty part of the castle, following the sound of Merlin's distinguishable gait. When he saw the flap of Merlin's brown jacket—he had forgone the cloak today—he cried, "Ah ha!" and strained his muscles and lengthened his stride.

He sharply turned the corner into a large room, so sure that he was right on Merlin's tail, but suddenly, he swore loudly and skidded to an abrupt stop that had him pin-wheeling his arms to regain balance.

A disembodied, ghostly chuckle floated about him, just at the edge of his hearing, but Merlin himself had disappeared. Arthur smirked; he knew that Merlin was very innovative in evasion, but that didn't mean that Arthur didn't know Merlin's tricks.

This was a new trick—a clever trick—but Arthur wasn't fooled. He had actually been expecting this one for some time and wondering when Merlin would use it, so immediately, he caught it.

_Well, the bloody idiot _can _be silent when he wants to be_, Arthur thought as he whirled in a slow circle. His vision narrowed as he searched specific spots and places, searching for something that would give Merlin away—a brushed curtain, a shadow, a soft patter.

He knew Merlin was there, and he grew increasingly frustrated as the seconds ticked by with no mistake from Merlin and no sign that he was even still in the same room. He gritted his teeth. That was it wasn't it? He probably turned himself invisible, though the warlock told him that it was impossible to completely make oneself invisible, and once Arthur had stopped, slipped behind him easily and walked back the way he came.

But no. Arthur dismissed that thought. He knew Merlin too well, and he knew that Merlin could be just as keen on this game as he was. He would want to see if Arthur could find him out and how he went about doing it, and Arthur was determined to do so.

Suddenly remembering his recreational hunting skills, Arthur smacked his forehead. Sometimes focusing on individual areas and searching for particular signs only led to an unfruitful, unsuccessful hunt. It was easier to see the flaws, easier to locate movement, and easier to Sense when you saw the whole picture. Arthur always found that when he wasn't searching for anything in particular, something glaringly obvious stood out and beckoned to him like a flame in a dark marsh.

He broadened his tunnel of vision, and almost immediately, he saw a shimmer in his peripheral vision. It was a form of disturbance in the air—like that of heat waves on a summer's day, mirages in the desert, or ripples from a pebble dropped into a pond. Curiously, he tried focusing on the spot but found that he could no longer see the shimmer—the shimmer that was oh-so-obviously magic.

A little glimmer of surprise struck him. Who would've thought that he, Arthur _Pendragon_, would become so familiar with magic? So familiar that he understood some of its workings, saw some of its subtleties, and discerned some of its secrets? So familiar that he could distinguish and separate the weaknesses and strengths of spells and could now recognize and actually _read and_ _pronounce_ a few words in the ancient tongue?

Well, he sure as hell hadn't. _No _one had. And look where he was now.

Grinning wolfishly, he tackled the invisible source of the shimmer. Merlin's yelp cut through the air as the two of them fell to the ground in an ungraceful heap

"Seems I won, Merlin," Arthur drawled smugly, crawling off of his court sorcerer.

There was no word from Merlin, but the eyes glowed gold, which was incredibly disconcerting to see, given that the rest of him was invisible, and his body reappeared as though a blanket was torn off of him.

Merlin was scowling, but his eyes danced with his irrepressible humor and spirit. "Do I have to go?" he whined theatrically.

Arthur just rolled his eyes and helped his friend to his feet. Curiously, he asked, "What was it this time, Merlin? I thought you told me invisibility had to be feigned."

Merlin's face brightened, as it always did when Arthur and he discussed magic and its properties. There was always a flash of shock in his eyes—Arthur knew he was still getting used to the fact that he was actually _interested_ in Merlin's gift. "And that is still true. I used a glamour…so that my body would match that of my surroundings." He grinned lopsidedly. "I haven't tried one before," he said with excitement.

"_A glamour?_" Arthur repeated slowly, scrunching his nose. "Actually, that is an appropriate name. That's what it looked like, in a way."

"Well, that just proves I have to work on it," Merlin mused, his mind beginning to drift away.

"Later," Arthur grunted as he grabbed Merlin's upper arm and began to tow him. "They're most likely waiting for us again."

Merlin grumbled incomprehensibly under his breath about 'stiff, old logs'.

_Logs?_ Chuckling, Arthur was going to question him, but Merlin said, "What're the council meeting for today?"

Arthur looked back at Merlin and studied him closely. He knew that Merlin could win these games of theirs; he knew that he _did_ win them when he had to sneak off to take care of certain _developments_ or projects… and then there were the times when finances or other tiring, exhaustive, and completely unnecessary topics were involved. The King allowed this—his court sorcerer and royal advisor had far better things to do than sit, listen, and talk about each village's tax returns, Camelot's treasury, or that duke that withheld money he owed Camelot. When the council had forced Merlin's presence at _that_ meeting…Arthur cringed and shook the memory.

The warlock was powerful; he could win any time he wanted, but Merlin lost these games more often than not. No, that wasn't it; it was more that he _allowed_ Arthur to win, and he only started playing the game when there really was no need to rush and no need for timeliness.

He knew Merlin. He knew that the young man had a way of knowing of threats and the going-ons of the palace and Camelot far before he himself did. He always had—long before Arthur learned of Merlin's magic—and Merlin had gained a huge amount of respect and awe from Arthur because of that skill.

And he didn't doubt that skill for one second.

Finally he said with a wide smile, "Don't be such an idiot, Merlin, and don't mistake me for one either. You may fool the others, but you don't fool me. You know _exactly_ what's going on." He draped an arm over Merlin's shoulders. "I know you far too well."

Those unique, kaleidoscopic blue eyes smiled knowingly at him, and the owner of those eyes simply replied, "Prat. Leave it to you to ruin my fun."

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><p>AN: A little short and not too thrilling, but suitable, I think.<p>

I am going to begin naming my chapters, and as I will be editing to SMN and PMMP soon, I will name those chapters as well. I am finding that those longer fics with chapter titles grab my attention more often than those without. I skim the titles and gain interest. I don't know if the rest of you are like that, but I thought it might be fun to do anyway. *shrugs* And it'll motivate me to get editing ;)

Has anyone else noticed how many new Merthur stories are being posted? I have nothing against them (don't be offended, please), but I think it's funny and curious that there's such a sudden influx of them. :)

Happy New Year, all, and HAPPY BIRTHDAY, COLIN MORGAN! *blows kisses*


	3. Job Description

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: First of all, let me thank you all! That 4x13 AU oneshot! I didn't imagine that it would be that well received, so thank you, thank you! :D

Well, this is a very pathetic excuse for a chapter for how long it's taken to get posted. :P There's very little plot development (at least until the end), but there are some important hints scattered throughout it about later stuff.

Chapter is going back in time a little to Merlin's POV the morning of the council meeting mentioned in the previous chapter.

Warning: You might not be too happy with the tiny decision I made; it's not very drastic and won't be mentioned very often after this chapter, but it is different...I don't really know how to explain it. Even though I don't agree with it, for this universe I created, I think my logic is sound, and since I still think it's very in character and kinda-sorta bromantic, it should be fine even though a bit... You'll see what I mean in the first few paragraphs.

Thank you for reading. :)

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><p><strong>Job Description<strong>

With Gaius's sharp "Oi!", Merlin was jolted and startled into consciousness. Trying to break through the rest of the sleepy fog covering his vision, he blinked stupidly at his guardian, who was grinning mercilessly, and propped himself up on one elbow.

"Up you get, Merlin," Gaius commanded happily, sounding as though he had been awake for hours already, "Up you get."

Merlin groaned, flopped back down, and pulled his blankets over his head. "Why, Gaius?" he moaned in complaint.

"We both know the answer to that question, Merlin," Gaius said, chuckling. From under his covers, Merlin felt something light hit his prone form with a soft _thwump_…Gaius had thrown some of the mess littering his bedroom floor at him.

Merlin sighed loudly, as he had every morning since becoming Court Sorcerer, "I must be mad."

"Glad we agree on something," Gaius teased. "C'mon. Hurry up. You skipped supper last night, so we need to get a good breakfast in you before you head off to Arthur. Best not to keep him waiting."

"When have I ever _not _kept him waiting," Merlin mumbled into his pillow.

Much to Gaius's surprise—and to his own, in fact—Merlin had made an impulsive decision to ask Arthur if he could retain some of his servant duties.

Well, you could imagine how well that had went: Arthur had stared at his friend with the utmost disbelief before breaking out into booming and tear-inducing laughter, and he, having thought that Merlin had been pulling his leg, had clapped the warlock's narrow shoulder and had said, "Good one, Merlin."

Unfortunately for Arthur, Merlin had felt his resolve in his decision strengthening with each gasping breath Arthur took. He had hardly believed it himself the moment the question rolled off his tongue, but the more he thought about it…the more logical it seemed and the more _right_ it seemed. "I'm being completely serious, Arthur," he had said slowly.

The King obviously had not seen Merlin's logic at all. His pale eyebrows had furrowed at Merlin's tone, and he had studied the straight-faced, determined warlock with confused sky-blue eyes. "You _are _serious, aren't you?" Arthur had finally asked soberly, eyes brimming with confusion. "But—but _why_? _Why _on _earth_…?"

Well, that was the question, wasn't it? For a moment, Merlin was shocked. It wasn't that he had any doubts; no, it was that he wondered if he could even answer.

Why in all of the world would he want to keep his servant duties when he had just been promoted to a higher social standing under the honorary title "Court Sorcerer"? When he had just been given everything he had dreamed of and more?

The question, in it of itself, was so simple. _Why_? One word. But the answer? That was another thing altogether, and putting that answer to words was even harder than trying to formulate the answer at all.

Though Merlin had asked his former Prince out of impulsiveness, his unique mind had been subconsciously churning that question far before Arthur had asked it himself, and after musing for merely seconds, the answer, amidst all the jumbled and knotted emotions and half-formed thoughts, became as clear as day.

"Would anything really change anyway, Arthur?" he had asked quietly, an impish smile gracing his lips and eyes crinkling.

For everything that Merlin had gained, for everything that had been bestowed upon him, and for every new change, had anything really been lost? No. Arthur and Merlin had both said it aloud at one point or another: everything, but nothing had changed. The job descriptions were practically the same to him. No matter if he was Court Sorcerer or manservant, he would fight and ride at Arthur's side; no matter what his title or position, he had his destiny, his friends, and his home to protect and love, to laugh and cry with. Arthur would still ask for his advice and wisdom, and he would still give it to him and any friend who asked for it to the best of his ability. The only difference was that he was now a member of the royal court (and therefore _had_ to attend council meetings, much to both his annoyance and pride) and that he could now use his magic openly (with some discretion, of course… until Camelot was more comfortable with magic) and without fear (not including his discomfort of the unknown strength of prejudice).

Then, the biggest difference of them all: he was also no longer at Arthur's beck and call.

It struck him in a strange, bittersweet way. He had been Arthur's manservant for over half a decade, ever since he had made Camelot his home. There hadn't been a day that he did not see his master, and the bond that grew between them was so great and so exceptional to outsiders because it had been formed when he was nothing more than an insolent servant and Arthur an arrogant Prince. All of their history together was played in those parts, and while they both had new parts to play, new titles to be, that bond remained intact and stronger than ever.

So all should be well. All _was_ well, and that meant that Merlin shouldn't be asking this of Arthur.

But there was something else troubling him: what the hell was he going to do in his free time?

Without his servant duties, he'd sure have quite a bit of it. As he knew, he'd still be riding out with Arthur and forced to those horrid meetings, and at least every other week something exciting and inexplicably dangerous would attack or happen in Camelot that would require his skills… but what about the down times? The times when nothing interesting was happening, no threats were headed their way, and Camelot was safe?

Because, whether you'd believe it or not, there actually _were _times like that.

He could practice magic during those times, he supposed, but if he managed to find the time to learn a whole new branch of magic—healing magic—while he was Arthur's servant and while he was secretly saving the prat from countless threats, he didn't need any _more_ time for studying. Besides, though he didn't like to boast or even think about it, his mastery of his powers was incomparable to any. He supposed he could help Gaius with his work, but again, he had managed to do that anyway with an even busier schedule.

No matter what he might say or what Arthur might think, Merlin actually _liked_ serving. It gave his mind a rest and his hands something to do. It presented him the excuse to remain at Arthur's side during all hours and the best chances of protecting him, offered him the opportunity to be around the Knights of the Round Table and Gwen every day, and allowed him to hear, see, and _know_ what was happening in Camelot.

Another thing that Merlin couldn't banish from his mind was that because Arthur was _King_, he needed a servant that he could undoubtedly trust. Unfortunately, it wasn't uncommon for enemies to target servants for information and to recruit them as spies. There also was always the chance that some sorcerer—Morgana, perhaps—could easily overpower a servant and either enchant them or pose as them.

It was safe to say that Merlin did _not_ want another Cedric incident to occur.

Beyond trustworthiness, the new servant would have to have the capacity for _some _individual thought, some amount of bravery and strength of will…and it did not help matters much that Arthur was by no means an easy master.

He'd just leave it at that.

Though Merlin had been Court Sorcerer for a few days when he had asked this of Arthur, the King had _still_ not found a new manservant—all applicants had either been boot-lickers or completely boring, dull people. Gwen had been just about at her wits end because, much to Merlin's amusement, she had been the one that Arthur often came raving to about how "incompetent" the lot had been.

Arthur's definition of 'incompetence' had been indescribably altered by Merlin. Quiet stutters, lowered eyes, respectful bows, gracious "Sire"s and "My Lords" now effectively drove the young King mad, and a "perfect" servant was no longer so _perfect_.

When Gwen had jokingly suggested that he stop looking for a replacement Merlin and pick a _new_ servant, a clueless Arthur had blinked at her in confusion and had replied stupidly, "_Merlin? _But Merlin doesn't need to be replaced, and I _am _looking for a new servant."

She admitted privately to Merlin that she might've gotten through to him if she had plainly spelled it out for him and had said, "Stop looking for _another_ Merlin to be your new manservant" instead.

"Because", she had teased their blushing new Court Sorcerer with a bright smile, "there is only _one_ Merlin."

Those words had solidified his unconscious decision.

It had taken Arthur less than a few seconds for him to understand Merlin's request, and smiling gently, he said with secretly pleased and relieved eyes, "No, it wouldn't, would it?"

"…So?" Merlin had prompted, drawing out the 'o'.

"Are you sure you'll be able to handle it?" Arthur said mockingly.

Merlin had rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Arthur? Now that I don't have to worry about you being suspicious about my unnatural speed at finishing chores, I can use magic to do them _all_."

Arthur had looked dumbfounded for a moment, as if surprised at the revelation that Merlin had unnecessarily worried about completing his chores too quickly, before he had smirked, "What? You want me to believe that you actually didn't do _all _of them before with magic?"

"Of course I didn't," Merlin had scoffed. "I'm not _that _suicidal. Even _you_ would have noticed if I had."

The young King had scowled at his friend's implied insult before he had replied regretfully, eyes flashing with guilt, "Fair enough…To tell you the truth," he had added thoughtfully, "I didn't even consider that there were that many spells for things so…simple and mundane."

"Not all danger and destruction," Merlin had chuckled. "The Old tongue is...well, _easy_ to command if you know enough about it." He had shrugged. "It's just as easy to find the spells to do wash your clothes as it is to summon lightning."

"For you maybe."

"Well," Merlin had admitted modestly, a goofy grin on his face, "I did learn the hard way that mucking out your horses is better done by hand."

Arthur had thrown back his head and had laughed, and walking away, he had called, "We'll see how well it goes."

Now, a month later, Merlin was still balancing the overlapping servant and Court Sorcerer duties with ease—perhaps this was in a small part due to the new stable boy solely dedicated to Arthur's stables—and he was happy with his lot. However, his happiness didn't change the fact he complained about serving Arthur just as often as he had when he first got the job.

Nor did it change his feelings for _mornings_….

_Especially after a night like last night_, Merlin thought groggily as he rubbed at his eyes.

With stomach pangs that trounced the aching rush in his head, Merlin finally became motivated enough to roll out of bed and begin to dress. His fingers gently played with the soft fabric, still in disbelief that _he _would own and _wear_ such regal clothing, before he pulled each article on.

A few weeks past, Arthur and he had gotten into a rather heated, though immensely comical, argument about Merlin's clothing. Arthur had thought that their Court Sorcerer couldn't possibly be seen walking around with the shabby clothes of a peasant, to which Merlin replied that it shouldn't matter what he was wearing and that he didn't have the necessary patience to deal with appearances. As far as Merlin had been concerned, as long as he was comfortable and as long as his movements weren't restricted (as they would surely have been by the horrible flowing garments Arthur had thought he should wear), his peasant clothes, matched with his new cloak, were completely _fine_.

However, when Gwen had appeared, wondering why the Knights were doubled over and _hooting_ obnoxiously with laughter, Merlin didn't have much choice in the matter.

At Gwen's insistence—backed by a smugly smirking Arthur—Merlin got new clothes, but his clothing style did not change much. He complied with Arthur's wishes by getting new clothes fit for a higher social status while also staying true to his heritage and desire for simplicity….and his more modest nature.

Gwen and he bought new dark brown trousers that were of finer and stronger make, and his long-sleeved shirts and brown jacket were made of a far richer material, had a fancier cut, and were brighter in color than his previous coarse ones. Gwen also forced him to buy more formal white tunics for feasts and other such events. Much to Arthur's major disappointment, he even got some new neckerchiefs, but he adamantly _refused_ new boots. There was something irreplaceable about a pair of worn, old boots and something so _impersonal _about a pair of new ones.

So, all in all, he had lost that battle, but there was still the subject of new chambers…that was still being discussed with a little less stubborn-headedness on both Merlin and Arthur's part.

Favoring his jacket over his distinguishable cloak today, Merlin, with his thick black hair a hopeless mess, finally stumbled down the few stairs into Gaius's physician chambers and plopped down in front of his food with a grunt.

Chuckling, Gaius looked up from the remedy he was mixing, and guessed, "Late night?"

"You could say that," Merlin muttered, beginning to shovel food into his mouth at top speed.

Gaius's eyebrow immediately shot to his hairline at the tone, and he stopped mixing to study his ward carefully. "What happened?"

Merlin sighed and raised his blue eyes to his surrogate father. "There was another one. Dressed the same, acting the same…They were either working for the same master or were trained by the same person, Gaius. It's no longer an eerie coincidence."

Gaius's face became perplexed. "Did you learn anything?"

Merlin shook his head. "No. She committed suicide, just as the last two. She got further than the others did, but when I cornered her…" He winced and began tracing at the grooves in the table with lowered eyes.

"Same poison?"

"Must be," Merlin said. When Merlin had caught the first man, he had been horrified to watch him pour an enhanced magical poison down his throat, and with a strangely gleeful glint in his eye, he passed on to the next life. Merlin was only led to believe it was magically enhanced when, after ensuring that the man was truly dead, the Dark poison caused the body to grotesquely begin to fold in on itself, crumble, and disappear as though it were made of dust, leaving nothing, not even a hair, behind. "But there was something different about this one."

"Oh?" Gaius said curiously. When Merlin had described the poison and its magical effects to his mentor, the old man had been utterly baffled.

"I felt the Dark magic this time," Merlin said. "It _moves_ differently than the poison does. It almost moves as a separate entity, as though it isn't bonded to the poison at all. I don't know how to explain it."

There was a pregnant pause before Gaius offered softly, "Perhaps you should tell Arthur."

Merlin jerked upright. Tell Arthur that in the past three weeks three suspicious strangers, completely clothed and masked in black cloth sashes and wrappings, had slipped into Camelot? That he could not discern their intentions with his _aura _magic for some inexplicable reason? That he could see their colors, but he couldn't read them with any clarity whatsoever? That they were using a deadly poison that gave its victims a feeling of pleasure before killing them off? That said poison was an unearthly and disturbing concoction of Dark magic that both Gaius and Merlin were at loss as how to explain and at loathe to even _begin_ to understand?

"Not—not yet."

Gaius looked disapprovingly at Merlin. "Don't you think he deserves to _know_, Merlin? It is his kingdom after all."

Gesticulating with his long hands, the young man defended, "_I_ need to know more, Gaius. Neither Arthur nor I will be able to do anything about it anyway until I know what they're after, who they're working for, and what that poison is. Besides, I don't think that they were there to assassinate him. Yet. I think—I think that they gathering information…or they're _testing _Camelot in some way."

"Perhaps they are testing _you_," the elderly physician suggested, a tremor in his voice.

"Perhaps," Merlin said uncomfortably, a creeping, crawling feeling lacing up his spine. The last time he had felt this way, the Gvarath had just appeared in their world, and he shuddered to recall it.

It was an omen, a warning, but for the life of him, Merlin did not know how or why the ominous feeling connected to the mysterious strangers.

"But that doesn't explain why they kill themselves before I can so much as open my mouth," he mused. "They don't struggle or try to escape or fight…They must really believe in what they're doing to have the willpower to do such a thing."

"That is curious indeed," Gaius said. "If they're gathering information, the question becomes: why would they do it when they need to return what they learned to the one who hired them? It makes no sense that they would resort to that…"

"Maybe their suicide _is _the message back to their master," Merlin suggested cleverly.

"Interesting," Gaius muttered. "But that leads into what they're actually _doing_ here. If they were assassins, you would assume that they would have more weapons on them than a small dagger and the poison that they drank. But they _act_ like well- trained assassins… It—it's almost as if they expected and _prepared _to be caught. What is the purpose? What are the motives?"

"They offer us more questions than answers," Merlin muttered sagely. "And that's why it's worthless to tell Arthur."

"I still believe he should know."

"I'll tell him if there's another one, Gaius," Merlin vowed, beginning to eat again. "I can't go to him with literally nothing. Besides," he sighed, "I just can't help feeling that I'm missing something…"

"Same here, my boy," Gaius mumbled uneasily, returning to his potion. "I guess the most we can do is keep a vigilant eye out for trouble."

Frustrated, Merlin moaned, "I wish there was something _more_ I could do! They cover their tracks far too well to be innocent in any way. It makes me nervous."

Gaius and he fell into silence as both continued to wonder about their curious and mind-boggling problem.

"Ah, there, it's done," the physician said after a few minutes. "I need to deliver this to the innkeeper's wife," he explained, pouring some of the clunky liquid into a large phial. "She has a horrible cough."

He grabbed his medicine bag and shuffled to the door. "Make sure you don't forget to feed Arthur, Merlin."

Regaining some optimism and breaking free of his darker thoughts, Merlin snorted in response, "The way you say that reminds me of Mother telling me to feed the village's pigs."

With an amused smile on his lips, Gaius said, "I have the feeling Arthur would not be too pleased to hear that."

Merlin laughed, and Gaius, after fiddling and fixing at his ingredient bottles absentmindedly, frowned at one nearly empty bottle and said sarcastically, "Merlin, if you're going to use some herbs from my stores, would you be so kind as to actually replenish anything that you use instead of leaving me with a dreadfully and dangerously low stock?"

Merlin smacked his forehead. "Oh, sorry, Gaius. I completely forgot."

His mentor sighed. "If you have time, I'd appreciate it."

"Of course, Gaius," he mumbled sheepishly.

"Rosemary," the elderly man reminded over his shoulder as he stepped through the threshold. "And some yarrow."

Once he had gone, Merlin lazily began clearing up his dishes with magic before leaving himself to get Arthur some breakfast.

It was an hour after dawn, and already, the castle was bustling with activity. Merlin couldn't help but grin at the differences in the palace.

The nobility and servants always seemed to be smiling as they went about their leisure and work, and the corridors were filled with song and chatter. There was a bounce in everyone's step and a sparkle in their eyes. Cheer was the air they breathed, and contentment was what they exhaled. To Merlin, it seemed that there was no one unhappy with Arthur's first month as King, and all were looking forward to the future with hope and anticipation.

For Merlin, there was a mixed reception.

He had grown used to the stares of people as he walked by; he grew used to the way that they abruptly stopped in their conversations with either fear or uncertainty, as though waiting for him to blow up at them and turn them into toads for not remaining respectfully silent in his presence. Once he passed, the whispers would follow.

But these were becoming a rare thing, and this was because he acted just as he did when he was only Merlin, not Merlin _Emrys._ He walked about the palace without shame, smiling and greeting everyone with either words or a nod. He offered help to the struggling, always being careful not to scare them if he used magic to do so, warning them, and sometimes even asking permission beforehand. He was gracious and kind, and he was not shy about teasing the King and his Knights in public. Nor was he overly sheepish or overly confident in using his magic.

Slowly, seeing that Merlin was the same goofy, insolent young man that they had for years seen rushing about the palace, the same Merlin that bantered and bickered with their King, the same Merlin that tripped over his own feet, the same modest Merlin who still liked to hang around in the shadows as though invisible, the same Merlin who they grew to tolerate and love, they lost their distance and relaxed.

The whole castle had been extremely surprised at the unconventional and mutual decision by both Merlin and Arthur to take the Court Sorcerer as the King's personal servant, but that seemed to warm their hearts towards their warlock even more.

For that is how they began to see him: _their _warlock. With the wyvern incident, people began to see the use in having a sorcerer in court, and after a little run-in with a half-mad sorcerer who still held some grudges, they began to love him as they did their King because even after Arthur's coronation speech in which he described some of the things Merlin had done for Camelot, they were only just beginning to understand what it was that Merlin was willing to do for them all, and they were proud to call him—the selfless, brave, goofy, wise, loyal, friendly, charming, strange Merlin _Emrys_—_theirs_. _Camelot's._

Many were still uncertain how to behave around him, and nearly all of them flinched upon seeing magic, except for children, Merlin had delightfully discovered. They _loved_ seeing him do tricks. But for the older generation, Uther's reign would always leave a mark upon them. On some, that mark was far too deep to reach.

Merlin knew that as much as the people were warming up to him and visiting Druids, there were still some more that strongly opposed not only him, but magic's return to the kingdom at all. They believed that Uther was right by the Purge, and even though they were careful about what they said and how they behaved, those people supported his old customs unwaveringly.

These people jeered at Merlin when he walked across the Lower Town; they sneered and called him names that made him have to hide a creeping blush of anger, force the tension from his jaw and brow, and prevent his sharp tongue slip from slipping. They never dared physically attack him, but they were not so merciful to the Druids that had begun to reenter Camelot.

It was his first test, and surely not his last.

Merlin made his way to the kitchens briskly, not too tired or preoccupied with his thoughts to grin lopsidedly at those who met his eyes.

Once he entered the steaming rooms, the maids either avoided his eyes, bowed their heads and murmured his name respectfully, or took no notice of the young man, who was more than a familiar sight in the kitchens. The hot-tempered, plump Cook, however, scowled at his disheveled appearance and greeted him, clucking and tutting, with a critical, "Someone looks like they've just rolled out of bed, eh?"

Merlin ran his hand through his messy head of hair with a grimace and then shot the Cook a smile. "It'll give the King something to complain about. He's never happy otherwise."

The harsh, ruthless woman relented to a smile. She may be a tyrant in her domain, but she had a maternal heart and never stopped bothering him about his thinness. But if he ever got in her way during meal-times…well, her lectures and threats were legendary throughout the castle staff, and even though she held a soft spot for Merlin ever since he first stumbled into the kitchens on his first day as Arthur's servant, he was the one who was most often on the receiving end. And that had not changed since he became Court Sorcerer.

Only three days earlier, he had upset a few jugs of cider, and after managing to catch them with magic, he then knocked over a pot of vegetables. Well, he got a scolding that rivaled one of Kilgharrah's. She yelled so loud that Gwaine, who had been beating Elyan in a sparring match at the time, later gave evidence that her lovely tones echoed all the way up to the training grounds.

Quite a few staff had been shocked and rather horrified to see their lowly Cook yelling at their supposedly mysterious and incredibly powerful Court Sorcerer for being a 'clumsy baffoon' and awed to see said sorcerer wincing under her severe gaze. It had been the gossip of the palace and Lower Town for the past few days, and Arthur was ever so keen on bringing it up.

"Here ya are, Merlin," she said gruffly, handing him a plate of steaming food. Grateful to her for not tacking the _Emrys_ to his name (true to his prediction, the second name had _not_ disappeared), Merlin thanked her warmly and carefully maneuvered himself out of the crowded kitchens and walked to Arthur's chambers.

Merlin entered Arthur's rooms with every intention of loudly crashing and obnoxiously yelling his "good morning", but when he magically unlocked the door and saw his slack-jawed, drooling, and fully-dressed King draped over his work desk, one arm dangling off the side and the other being used as a pillow, a quill still in hand and smudging ink on his face, Merlin smiled fondly, lightened his footsteps, and quieted his movements.

"It appears you had a late night as well, my friend," Merlin whispered, gently removing the quill from Arthur's hand. The King was so dead to the world that he didn't even stir at Merlin's touch, but he sighed heavily in his sleep.

Deciding that the smell of breakfast would be a far more pleasant thing to be awoken to than a shaken shoulder, Merlin left the food on the table, and seeing no harm in allowing the King to sleep for a little while longer, he exited quietly.

The rest of the morning passed quickly for Merlin; he had cared for Arthur's armor and clothes the night before, so all he had to do until he went to check on Arthur was collect those herbs for Gaius. Enjoying the fresh air and freedom from the pressures of the castle, he took his time, and his mind wandered haphazardly as he worked.

It was such a beautiful day that Merlin delayed returning to the palace as long as he could, but eventually, he made his way back up through the streets of the Lower Town, where there were now more people about than when he set out.

Since he wasn't wearing the dark cloak many associated with him, a lot of them hardly passed him a second glance, and if they did, they smiled or stared.

Merlin, still lost in daydreams, was hardly aware of what was going around him, until he heard the loud, commanding tones of the guard captain and the soft tones of Gaius and saw a large crowd forming ahead. Just ahead, he noticed several guards lugging away a struggling man, but before he could figure out anything more, the guards and the offender disappeared.

Stormy blue eyes softening with concern and eyebrows furrowing, Merlin jogged toward the mass. "Excuse me," he muttered politely and repeatedly. People flinched violently if he brushed up against them by accident, and if they began to protest about the speed at which he was pushing through the crowd and turned bad-temperedly to see who was trying to get through, they nervously squeezed out of the way or backed away with hurried apologies, eyes flashing with uncertainty.

Uncertainty?

_This is more than nervousness towards _me_…_Merlin thought suspiciously. _It's the situation itself, _he realized, eyes hardening with seriousness.

He broke through the crowd to find Gaius, a couple of guards—some listening to Gaius and the others beginning to disperse the crowd—and…

Merlin swore under his breath. _Damn you, Ulfric_….

"What happened here?" he asked one soldier.

"A fight broke out. We don't know much, but the Druid did not raise a blow, Merlin Emrys," Eric, the soldier who had gained Arthur's respect when the Gvarath first made its appearance in Camelot, explained shortly. Merlin smiled in relief and pride, and noticing this, Eric finished with disdain, "Ulfric has been led away for you and the King to deal with."

He nodded. "Thank you, Eric," Merlin said both thankfully and sarcastically, walking towards Gaius and the causes of the disturbance.

The causes? Or rather, the victims of Ulfric's intolerance, prejudice, and cruelty? There, in the middle of the circle, was a wounded young Druid, no older than he, being held upright by none other than the beautiful, headstrong Lady Ava, daughter of Lord Ulfric.

"Careful," Gaius was saying to two guards, "You don't want to jostle his ribs too much." Gaius suddenly saw Merlin's approach and cried, "Merlin!"

The young Druid lifted his sandy head at the name and wiped at some blood from the corner of his mouth. Merlin recognized his tattooed Druid symbol, marking him one of Iseldir's camp, which was the same camp that his friends, Aislin, Kynon, and Enya lived in. The group of Druids, being the largest and most powerful of all clans, had moved to be closer to the castle, and they were all helping him and Arthur immensely, in their own small ways, with the changes Camelot was facing.

"Emrys," the Druid muttered, his head drooping into a bow.

Not caring in the slightest about her expensive pale blue dress or tangled brunette hair, the Lady Ava smiled in greeting at him, but immediately she returned her attention to the Druid and stroked his hair, angry and sad tears alike threatening to fall.

Merlin had always admired her. She was rebellious, daring, wild, intelligent, and fiercely opinionated. She was never afraid to speak her mind or openly disobey her superiors. In her strive to break free of the proper and restricting expectations of the noble class and her father, she denounced almost every one of society's collective values, and that was probably one of the reasons why she was one of the first of the nobility—beyond Sir Leon and Arthur, that is—to accept him. She hated being chained down and hated when others made decisions for her, so it was easy to see why reputation was the last of her concerns. Her friendship was not easy to gain, but when you did, she was extraordinarily protective and loyal.

Pressing her soft lips into his hair, she whispered, "I'm so sorry, Gavan. So sorry. This is my fault."

"Hardly," the young man responded, admiration shining from every pore on his face. "We expected this."

Ava's face hardened, and an unladylike swear slipped from her mouth. "What is so wrong about _us? _What crime have we committed?"

_Now_ everything fell into place, and Merlin pursed his lips, composing himself. "Wait a moment," he said kindly to the guards, who were just about to remove the hurt man from Ava's arms.

"Only bad bruising?" Merlin guessed, directing his question at Gaius.

The elderly man nodded. "Nothing broken."

"Good," Merlin said, a little more harshly and darkly than he intended, causing Ava to look up at him with a mixed expression of worry and stubbornness.

"My father is an _ass_," she whispered passionately. "He deserves whatever he has coming for him."

"I wish I could beg to differ," Merlin growled under his breath. This was not Lord Ulfric's first offense, but _this _was a more than a step too far. And Merlin was _far_ from happy to see the man, who had become a far too familiar face in Arthur's council chambers, hurting one of his own.

"Would you like me to heal you? The council has inevitably been called—" he winced, and Gaius nodded guiltily from his side "—and you may need to stand before them and King Arthur," the warlock informed the young man.

"Yes, he would," Ava answered for the Druid, sending him a glare that dared him to challenge her.

"Thank you, Emrys," Gavan said, grinning sheepishly and wincing. His eyes shone with the overpowering awe that all Druids' held upon first meeting the prophesized Emrys.

"No," Merlin said, stooping to place his hand to the Druid's ribs. His eyes flashed gold as he incanted the healing spell. Ava did not so much as flinch, but the guards remaining near and holding back curious people eyed him edgily. "Thank you for not fighting back."

Gavan's face lit with pride while Ava scowled in disbelief, "You're _thanking _him for not defending himself? I knew you were mad, Merlin, but not _that _mad."

Gaius was amused, but Gavan looked horrified at his lover's insult.

"He defended himself honorably," Merlin said quietly, not looking up from his work and ignoring the guards' whispers. "When it comes to us, fighting back the only way we can—with magic…that would be our death sentence. Ava, people are still expecting and waiting for us to turn on them, still waiting for us to slip up. You are rare. You know better, but others would not see it as you and I do. So yes, I thank you, Gavan. For you proved something to them all today."

"I'm glad to have helped you, Emrys, rather than hindered."

"It was more than that," Merlin disagreed. "You and Ava are doing a brave thing. Following your hearts. It took Gwen and Arthur _ages_ to do what you've done," he joked. "I'm just sorry that this is what came of it. Because it really shouldn't have."

Ava touched his arm gratefully, and Gavan's hazel eyes smiled at him.

Merlin stopped healing Gavan only when his body would no longer accept his magic and said regretfully, "It isn't perfect, but you will be able to stand and walk now, and it won't hurt to breathe. Are you hurt anywhere else?"

Shaking his head, Gavan carefully stood straight, stretched with only a small discomfort, and thanked him again. Gaius noticed his grimace and said, "Come. I have something that will help until they are fully healed."

They dismissed the guards, and all four began to walk back to the castle.

"Thank you, Merlin. And you, Gaius," Ava breathed. "I'm sorry that we've caused trouble. It's an embarrassing situation all around."

Merlin chuckled half-heartedly. "It's not you who's trouble. Or _in_ trouble. Arthur's going to be _furious_."

"And you're not?" Gaius muttered under his breath.

"Prejudice, I can understand," Merlin said, "But violence is another thing all together."

The rebellious noblewoman, servant-Court Sorcerer, physician, and cloaked Druid were perhaps the oddest collection of people to find walking together, and stares followed them all the way to Gaius's chambers. Ava, uninhibited as ever, took Gavan's hand in response.

Gaius sat Gavan down and began fussing over him, and ensuring that there was nothing more he could do, Merlin said reluctantly, "Well, Arthur's probably heard by now. I'd better be going."

Gaius raised a suspicious eyebrow at him. "Don't you mean neglect and delay your responsibilities as long as possible?"

Gavan looked confused and surprised, but Ava laughed genuinely at Merlin's mock-hurt face.

"I'm not delaying anything," he disagreed innocently. "Not yet anyway." He gestured around the group. "We need our witnesses there, after all."

Gaius relented, realizing that Merlin was right. The meet could hardly start if Gaius and the witnesses weren't there…and when Gavan still needed medical attention...

He shook his pestle at Merlin. "If you're not there by the time we get there…" he warned.

"That's a threat for Arthur to finish when he catches me," Merlin said, a devious grin spreading across his face.

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><p>AN: I can't promise that the next chapter will take less time, but I can promise that things will pick up. ;) And excuse my errors. :P<p> 


	4. The Way He Lies

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: I'm so sorry! Again, this chapter has taken 2 weeks for me to post, but I'm hoping the length of it and it's contents will allow you to forgive me. ;) I hope that it's done properly, and everything meets your expectations.

I'm reading "Mansfield Park" for English; I'm not too happy with Austen at the moment at all. *grimaces* Though, I have to say, Shakespeare has surprised me: one of his characters uses the word _clotpole _in "King Lear". :P Is it wrong that I respect him more because of it? =D

You have "Dear Rosemary" by the Foo Fighters to thank for the chapter title. :)

Enjoy:

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><p><strong>The Way He Lies<strong>

_It won't be too much longer now_, Merlin thought, his heart aglow with both amusement and glee.

The moment they had entered the council chambers, Arthur's light blue eyes, as always, sought hers. They always softened and became tender when he saw her, and the same little smile played about the edges of his lips. When she returned that smile, her sweet, cocoa brown eyes brimming with both love and friendship, no matter the mood he had been in before seeing her, Arthur's face lit like the sun.

But Merlin had noticed something different the past week. It was subtle, so subtle that not even Gwen herself had noticed; Merlin suspected—no, he _knew_—that even the oblivious and clueless Arthur himself hadn't even realized… Yet, there it was.

It was in the eyes.

A fuzzy glow—like that of moonbeams reflecting across the misty surface of a lake—had replaced that of the distinct, bright rays that Arthur's eyes usually cast upon seeing Guinevere. He watched her with that day-dreamer's gaze, and once her eyes caught his, time seemed to hold its breath until Gwen's sweet smile or cheerful voice broke the natural spell holding Arthur hostage. The moon set, and the sun rose again.

The smile was still there, but it was more…hesitant. It wasn't so much a lack of faith in his love for her or her love for him that caused his smile to waver, Merlin knew. It was something else entirely, and it was something that Merlin could not interfere with. He could only watch helplessly and soundlessly cheer him on from the sidelines.

Though Merlin had to admit—as happy as he was to see Arthur nervously gathering his courage to ask for Gwen's hand, he didn't envy his friend's position in the slightest.

The fuzzy glow was only fleeting (perhaps that was why only Merlin saw it), and Arthur's eyes cleared by the time the other council members, which now included the Knights of the Round Table and Gwen, switched their attention to the tardy King and warlock. It took barely a second for the cacophony of 'hello's, jokes, and sighs to bounce across the room. Merlin only noticed a few of the older Lords glaring, but as always, he kept his face open and honest, his smile unwavering and pleasant.

A part of the court and nobility, unfortunately, was still having trouble accepting his presence there and was holding to their Uther-influenced beliefs far more adamantly than the people, but slowly, he knew that they were beginning to trust him and value his advice in council. To get there, he had to face a different type anger and an open hatred, the type that many commoners were afraid to show, had to live with not only the fearful and nervous stares of the people, but the equally edgy and distrustful glares of the nobles, and had to watch his every move carefully because, as he told Lady Ava an hour earlier, _everyone_ was watching, waiting for him to slip up, to give them a reason to fight and a reason to renounce magic; he still had to, and the Druids and the few other sorcerers that had made themselves known followed his example.

No matter how much he and Arthur wished it, there really was no sword, no magic (not without taking away free-will, that is) that could force the prejudice to disappear.

He envied the Knights and Gwen sometimes. Even though they were asked to join the council more recently, the controversy over their new positions blew over extraordinarily quickly; some hardly _blinked_ in surprise. Merlin actually had been the one who exclaimed to Arthur, "Well, it's about _time_!"

Each of them had _so _much to offer to the council. The people already had a definite fondness for Gwen, who, having lived and work among them for all of her life, knewthem well, and her advice was _always_ at their best interest. Her brother, on the other hand, because of his background with blacksmithing, was wonderful at calculations, numbers, and statistics, which was extremely helpful when it came to finances, food stores, and battle. Leon, of course, being one of Arthur's oldest and most experienced Knights, perhaps knew even more than even Arthur did about battle strategy and defense in war. Percival had a creative way of viewing things and often thought of solutions that no one would _ever_ have imagined. Lancelot was brilliant at finding the little details that others miss and skip over, and he always had ideas on how to potentially use those forgotten details against an enemy. For someone who didn't give a rat's arse about how he was viewed, Gwaine was strangely good at giving advice that helped keep a healthy, happy balance between a King and his people, and he was very clever when it came to maintaining a certain reputation in the eyes of the people. Some might call Gwaine's methods…'subtle manipulation'.

"Weren't waiting long, were you?" Arthur asked in greeting as he made his way to the head of the table.

"Hardly at all," Percival said, winking at Merlin.

Merlin couldn't help but sneak a peek at Rupert, Lukas, and Ulfius, who where the last of the council members that had held seats in Uther's court. They were the most verbose and opinionated towards magic, and Merlin expected one of them to make a snide comment in retaliation to Percval's statement, but strangely enough, they were silent. Their faces, though unreadable for the most part, portrayed a small amount of emotion that bordered on amusement.

"Gaius hasn't even shown yet," Gwen assured Arthur.

Arthur frowned thoughtfully, glancing about the room as if for assurance that Gaius was absent. "_Gaius _is late?" he repeated slowly in disbelief. "But _Gwaine _isn't?"  
>Gwaine and Merlin caught each other's eyes and shared a smirk. The roguish Knight had an even wilder rebellious streak than Merlin when it came to council meetings…and life, for that matter. However, the major difference between the two and their tolerance for court proceedings was that Gwaine's reasons for tardiness often concerned the tavern.<p>

"Yeah," Leon affirmed. "And he doesn't even have a Merlin to keep him late."

"I'm not late; you're early," Merlin denied with a lopsided grin.

Nearly everyone in the room chuckled, and Arthur's lips twitched into a knowing half smile. The King understood that Merlin, in his wacky definition, was never late. In his world and words, "if you're late, you're dead, and since I'm not dead, I'm not late." It had been a joke the first time he said the words, but ironically enough, the blunt words were too true. If Merlin ever _was_ late…he shuddered.

He was _never_ too late. He couldn't afford to be.

"He is usually done with his rounds by now," Arthur mused. "What _is _keeping him then?"

"He was the one that called this meeting," Lancelot added.

Arthur's frown deepened. "That can't be good," he muttered.

Merlin took his seat at Arthur's right hand and returned a smile to Gwen, who sat directly across from him and to Arthur's left, even though his mood was abruptly going downhill.

Merlin could understand Arthur's perplexed concern: when Gaius called a meeting, it was usually when his guardian and he had researched information on a magical creature or artifact or had discovered a plot of some sort, and that was only when things were dire. Usually, Gaius didn't call a meeting at all. This was mostly because he expected and relied upon Merlin to handle the information as the situation called for, and there really was no need to involve the entire court.

Besides, old habits died hard.

So, while it was quite unlike Gaius to gather the court, it was even more unlike him to be later than his ward.

Given the circumstances, it was easy to see why Arthur was worried, but Merlin knew that Arthur had no reason to be; unfortunately, it appeared that he alone of the gathered members knew why Gaius was missing.

"He got caught up in the scuffle," Merlin responded to Arthur's last question.

All eyes turned to stare at him. Merlin had to refrain from rolling his eyes. He lived with the man, for goodness sake; it wasn't as though he was correctly predicting the exact whereabouts of a complete stranger and the birthday of their next descendant or something equally as ridiculous.

"He always seems to_ know_, doesn't he?" Merlin heard Geoffrey mutter to Leon, who, like the rest of the Knights and Gwen, was shaking his head and chuckling softly at their interesting Court Sorcerer.

"Merlin," Arthur started with forced patience. "What _scuffle_?"

"It appears," Merlin began delicately, "that Lady Ava—"

At the name, Arthur's face first lit with comprehension and then contorted into a grimace, and with blazing eyes, he swore under his breath. Gwen, the only one save Merlin to hear him, let alone _understand_ him, smacked him for the rather violent, colorful, and inappropriate cuss that her King had used before glaring at Merlin, who gave her a protesting look that contrasted with his dancing, bright eyes. He quirked an eyebrow as if to say, _What? What did _I _do?_

Gwen was not convinced, and a diabolically innocent smile appeared on Merlin's face.

Merlin _might_ have taken advantage of teaching Arthur—he was teaching the Knights, Arthur, and Gwen to recognize some important words of the Old tongue and any others they might be so inclined to want to know…

His mind wandered briefly to the first of these lessons, during which Gwaine had joyfully and expectantly shouted, "_Forbearne, forbearne!"_ until a hysterically laughing Merlin caught his breath and deigned to warn them all that unless they decided to submit themselves to long years of study to actually acquire some _magic_, the words themselves would be quite useless, _much_ to Gwaine's disappointment.

Anyway, Merlin couldn't take credit for Arthur's new enthrallment with using the language of magic _himself_ to express his opinions and frustrations openly and to confuse and outwit people…. well, confuse all accept Gwen, who had overheard _that_ particular and unintentional vocabulary lesson to the Knights and King.

To say that she disapproved was an understatement, and Merlin had to grudgingly acknowledge that she was right in suggesting that Gwaine didn't need any more crude words to add to his arsenal. He got into enough trouble with only English. _Arthur_, however…He smirked.

_Tordwifel_, Arthur had hissed. Dung beetle.

Gwen had caught on to Arthur's frustration quickly, but a few of the others, starting in confusion, stared at the King and misinterpreted his grimace as being one directed towards Lady Ava, who had, in the short time that she had been visiting Camelot, become a rather close friend to him.

"What did he do?" Arthur asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. Immediately, everyone was on the same page, and their reactions varied from annoyance to indignation to worry.

"Apparently, a Druid is not suitable company for his daughter," he told Arthur, whose eyes twinkled in recognition of the suggestion behind his words before becoming as cold as ice once again.

"He went a step too far this time," Arthur guessed.

Merlin's eyes grew dark, and he nodded sharply in agreement. "Thankfully, the guards were able to stop Lord Ulfric before any horrible damage was done."

"Whose definition of _damage, _Merlin?" the blonde-haired man asked suspiciously.

Elyan snorted into his goblet of water, and Lancelot thumped him on the back when he began to cough.

"That was only one time, Arthur," Merlin protested, knowing that the King was thinking back to the week before, when he had quite accidentally summoned a sprite, which was a creature closely related to both goblins and Sidhe fairies, while searching through a new spell book that Geoffrey had dug up. Unfortunately, after Merlin had optimistically said that the damage to Arthur's chambers "wasn't _that_ bad", Arthur, of course, just had to investigate himself. Well, it was safe to say that Arthur had had a very different opinion upon seeing the small bog that his bedroom had suddenly become.

"Why is it so hard to believe me whenever I mention _damage_?" Merlin muttered, sighing. Percival and Gwaine began to snigger softly.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him, and returning to the matter at hand, Gwen asked softly, "How badly was the Druid hurt, Merlin?"

Merlin lost his humor immediately. "Gaius and I had to care for Gavan's ribs, which were severely bruised, nearly broken, and he was bleeding a bit from the nose—obviously from a hit to the face…"

"And Ulfric?" Lord Lukas asked sharply. "How was he injured?"

Merlin turned his stormy blue eyes to the curly-bearded Lord, who was frowning unhappily and cruelly at the Court Sorcerer. They locked eyes, and it did not go unnoticed by Merlin that Leon, Percival, and Elyan exchanged nervous glances, that Gwen shuddered and shuffled at the intensity of the two men's gazes, that Gwaine began to pick at his nails and fiddle with anxiously at his sword, that Geoffrey's and Arthur's eyes darted from Merlin's face to Lukas's and back again, or that Rupert and Ulfius shifted forward with bestial, hungry eyes…

"He wasn't," Merlin said shortly.

Gwen shot him an inconspicuous look, but Merlin took little heed of both the warning and pride in her eyes. He was keeping his frustrations and impatience towards the more narrow-minded Lord, as well as his famously impudent tongue, in check, but his tone was a little too acrimonious and sarcastic to be considered polite or acceptable, and Lord Lukas narrowed his eyes suspiciously, nostrils flaring.

After a moment of silence, Merlin added both brightly and a bit sarcastically, "Unless, of course, he stumbled and scraped his knees or stubbed his big toe while being escorted by the guards."

Merlin's joke and small jab made Lukas' face redden considerably, but the warlock felt no triumph for the reaction to his point, as he probably would have had he been speaking to Arthur.

The King, leaning over to Merlin, gently grabbed his upper arm to get his attention. Merlin turned to Arthur, which cut off any insults or retorts that Lord Lukas had been preparing, and saved him from the Lord's temper. "The Druid—" Arthur began, addressing Merlin alone in a whisper.

"Gavan," Merlin corrected quietly.

Arthur nodded apologetically. "Did Gavan use magic?"

Merlin was just about to reply with a shake of his head of shaggy hair, which still was a disgraceful and distasteful mess to the proper and disapproving nobility of the group, when there was a booming knock at the massive doors.

"It is the Court Physician, my Lord," a guard announced, opening the door and revealing the group of three Merlin had left not too long ago. "Escorting Lady Ava and…" the man trailed off awkwardly, his eyes darting to Gavan and back.

Arthur called, "Come in."

Gaius and Ava entered confidently, but Gavan looked ill at ease, bemused, and awed at entering the royal court's chambers. He was reserved and deferential in his manner, but his eyes excitedly surveyed the room and its people with a bright curiosity and wariness. His eyes sought Merlin's more often than not, and he smiled reassuringly at him.

Gaius, grim-faced, and Ava, smiling regretfully, bowed to Arthur before Gaius took his seat next to Merlin and Geoffrey. Ava remained standing and watched Gavan with endearing affection as the young man first bowed to the King and then to Merlin, who fidgeted with obvious discomfort at the deference to him.

Arthur greeted them with more kindness than impersonality before asking the guard, who was just about to shut the door, "Could you call for Lord Ulfric and the soldiers who had taken him away, please?"

The guard's face faltered for a moment, and Merlin could not help but hide a smirk. The guards were not used to being asked to do their duties _politely_. Uther had hardly considered them to be people; they were used to yelling and threats, so Arthur's treatment of them was entirely new and surprising. A part of them rejected his kindness because it was so strange to them and almost _improper_—he was _King_; they knew that he need not be kind to them—but the greater part of them unconsciously added that new bounce to their step and that new commitment and zeal for their duties.

Arthur waited, eyebrow beginning to rise (obviously not understanding what had caused the guard to pause), until the guard recovered and responded, "Of course, my Lord."

"Merlin has given me the outline of what has happened," Arthur said once they were safe from eavesdroppers once again. "We should clear some of the story before Lord Ulfric arrives. Things might get a little… _riotous_ once he is here." Ava scowled in agreement, and Arthur continued, "Are you both well?"

"As well as I can be in the present situation, Sire," Ava muttered bitterly. Ulfius, who had never met the Lady Ava before and had never believed the stories circulating about her behavior, looked appalled and particularly unhappy with her tone and disregard for etiquette.

Merlin watched the Lord's facial expressions change with some exasperation and amusement. Yes, a stickler for propriety, he was, and a damn unbendable stickler too. Arthur joked once that it was a miracle that the intolerant man hadn't been broken into tolerance by Merlin, who managed to get under his skin by simply _looking_ at him, just yet.

He and Lukas would side with Ulfric, no doubt. Despite the delicate and private nature of a certain part of the situation, they _would_ make it their business.

_Hypocrites_, Merlin thought, _There they condemn a Druid and noblewoman for loving each other, and then here they seem to have no problem with the relationship between the King and an ex-serving girl._

Arthur would _not_ stand for it any more than Merlin. They weren't here to discuss Ava's love-life.

Gavan, who seemed too overwhelmed to speak, was answered for by Gaius, "Gavan's wounds will be clear within days thanks to Merlin."

"And his pain is significantly more bearable thanks to Gaius," Merlin added, giving his mentor a grateful smile.

"How bad was the fight, Gaius?" Geoffrey asked.

"I shudder to think what would have happened if the soldiers had not stopped him. It was already bad enough to see Ulfric—erm—beating him, but it was just about to get worse when the soldiers appeared."

"Worse, Gaius? Surely it couldn't have gotten any worse…?" Rupert asked, horrified. Merlin was surprised; usually he showed more indifference towards matters that involved Ulfric.

"Oh, no," Ava interrupted cynically, "my dear father was about to pull a dagger on him as well."

"A _dagger? _What was the offense?" Lukas barked.

Gavan answered straight-facedly, "If you would call love an offense, sir."

Lukus was shaking his head accusingly. "I refuse to believe that. There is something _more_. Ulfric—"

"Ulfric publicly and brutally _beat_ a man," Merlin finished for him in a deadly tone. "Are you suggesting that his actions were justified?"

"If they were used in self-defense—" Lukus argued, glaring and sneering at Merlin and the Druid nastily.

Ava looked nearly as livid as Merlin and the others felt, but the others, even _Arthur_, whose temper could at times match that of his father's, and Merlin, who was meant to be one of the objects of the barb, were much more capable of restraining their anger than the rebellious young woman was.

"Thick-skulled _fool!" _she hissed, beginning to aggressively stalk forward. Gavan caught her arm in an attempt to hold her back, but she shook him off. _"_You believe that the nobleman—what a poor, false title for such a pathetic excuse for a human being!—is not at fault, and you spurn the honest man because of your blind prejudices and old traditions. You and my father are alike in _that!_ My father!Even _I_, his _daughter_, the one most inclined to be biased and protective of him, see him for what he is. _Gavan_ did not so much as—!"

Her yells were cut off by a loud disturbance that suddenly sounded in the hall.

"Here we go," Ava spat.

After brief, hidden sighs and a shared glance, Arthur and Merlin both steeled their patience and prepared themselves as Lord Ulfric's screams and disrespectful curses at the guards escorting him became clearer and as they increased in volume and vulgarity.

The council doors crashed open without so much as a knock, admitting Eric, who dragged a struggling Ulfric between him and another solider witness.

"Filthy, low-born swine! Cowardly mongrels!" the man shouted. Once they reached the middle of the floor, the stocky Lord was released by the stony-faced guards, and he stumbled forward.

Merlin frowned; there was something…No, there it went. He lost what it was he thought was wrong, and though the feeling brushed at him as he watched the Lord, he could not put it to words.

Panting heavily, eyes wild, Ulfric caught himself from falling and looked up at the council awaiting him. He seemed unmoved by their cold countenances and frowns, but when his dark, tired, red-rimmed eyes spotted Ava and Gavan…

"_YOU!"_ Ulfric screamed, lunging forward. Eric managed to get hold of him and hold him back.

"You foul _sorcerer!_" Merlin and Gavan both winced. "You disrespectful _dog_. You think that you can play me? You think you can enchant my daughter with your so-called _love_ and _charm_—"

"Ulfric…" Arthur said sternly.

"You think you have a chance with a woman," he continued, ignoring Arthur and sneering through his flawless teeth, "who outranks you? Whose father would rather _die_ than see you so much as _look_ at her with the eyes of a daydreaming stargazer? One _drop_ of her blood is worth more than your stinking _hide_! And what are you in comparison to _her_? You have nothing but your family of demons and the horse blanket you call a tent in the bloody _forest_."

"Ulfric…"

"You and your kind may be reluctantly admitted into our lives, but you are not _welcome_ here. Take your magic tricks and your sparkling potions and go to hell with them! There's no better place for those who practice magic. Let hell's fires be your pyres. And burn. Burn for eternity."

"Ulfric…" Arthur's voice became sharper as his frown and brow deepened with agitation, displeasure, and rage. "That is _enough_."

Merlin's friends' faces turned varying degrees of red as Ulfric's rant became more and more elaborate and hurtful. Merlin, on the other hand, while angry and annoyed, was...more amazed and almost _entertained_ by the man's continuing rant. He and Gaius, who was reacting to Ulfric's insane, crazed insults as his ward was, exchanged a few bemused glances. Ava looked stunned, and even she was speechless.

_Insane_ was the word, Merlin realized. Mad. Ulfric had always been outspoken, but this was obnoxiously so. Perhaps…perhaps he was slipping. On what though? Merlin took a peek at his _aura_, which was a violent lime color, and saw no discernable change in the color, yet something was…off.

"_Magic_ is a curse upon us all," Ulfric finally finished before immediately rounding on his daughter. "And _YOU!"_

Arthur's patience was clearly at its end. "Ulfric!" he yelled.

The Lord, _still_ ignoring his King, strained against Eric's grip. Ava met his gaze steadily, eyes burning and blazing. "You wretch! Betraying whore! I thought I raised you better; it seems I was mistaken. I've been _far _too lenient in your upbringing. To go behind your dear father's_ back_, and _lie_? Lie and lie and lie! He is a sorcerer. Did you think that I would never discover your treachery? Did you think me an _idiot_?

"What did you think would come of this?" Ulfric continued mockingly. "Did you think you could live happily ever after with your sorcerer in his miserable poverty? You are a _noble_; he is _dirt_. He has _magic_, and you do not. You are blessed whereas he's damned."

Ava's glare was more than answer enough, and she stubbornly said, "Nothing you say to me can change the way I feel, _Father_. I love him. Magic or no. Let _that _be damned! I don't care! I intend to love him for the rest of my life. He asked me to marry, and I have agreed."

Ulfric finally stopped raving and stared, face turning purple, and suddenly whirled to Arthur and addressed him for the first time, "You cannot accept this, Sire." His voice was sleek with flattery and good-will. "This _sorcerer_ has asked for her hand without my permission, and what is more? She is a noble-woman, and he a Druid. Surely, this is unacceptable?"

Arthur's eyes narrowed, and he said coldly and diplomatically, "This is an embarrassing and delicate situation, Ulfric. What you speak of is a personal matter, and as King, I am not at liberty to speak and advise you in the raising of your daughter or reveal any opinion on her behavior or decisions anymore than I can Gavan's unless they have committed treason or a crime. Love is no crime. I cannot judge their love as right or wrong and simply annul their feelings. That is _your_ duty, _her_ duty, _his _duty. Accept, deny, quarrel, or denounce. That is not for me to decide.

"My input would be biased anyway," Arthur continued. "I have not had a child, so I cannot see myself in your position. I have, however, lied to my father much in the same way that Gavan and Ava have lied to you." He averted his eyes and reached for Gwen's hand. "I don't suppose you believe it is wrong for a King and a daughter of a blacksmith to be courting each other?"

Arthur's stoic eyes flickered back to Ulfric, who wheeled backwards quickly. "Of course not, My Lord."

_Liar_, Merlin thought immediately. Arthur was apparently of the same mind.

"Then there should be nothing wrong with Lady Ava marrying a Druid. Their sneaking may have been insensitive, but I'm sure if you looked hard enough, you'd see the reasons for them doing so. Besides, who am I to stop them? If I denied them that right, I would be a hypocrite."

As Arthur waited for the words to set in, Ulfric sputtered, and Merlin had to hide the smug and satisfied set of his mouth, knowing that Ulfric _knew_ that there was absolutely _no _argument that he could place on the table to continue his protest genuinely or productively. He was proud of Arthur's diplomatic, yet cutting and authoritative speech; it proved how good of a King he already was and how high his morals were set.

Yes, Merlin was _very_ proud.

Arthur, satisfied that Ulfric would now drop the subject and pleased with the argumentative Lord's silence as well as the rest of the council's approval, he said, "We aren't here—"

"What would the_ Druids _think of such a match?" Ulfric suddenly cried, finally groping for the one last remaining excuse.

Arthur's cold, indifferent, serious gaze faltered for the first time as his confidence was thrown, and Merlin saw a gleam of triumph flicker in Ulfric's wild eyes. Of _course_ Arthur wouldn't know a thing about Druid culture.

_Well, that's what _I'_m here for, I suppose._

"They wouldn't think anything of it," Merlin answered, saving his King. Arthur threw him a grateful glance. "Druids have little pomp when it comes to marriage. Though magic practitioners often find love with another magician, it is not _unusual_ for one of us to mate with one who does not possess magic. It doesn't happen too often, however, because we prefer our partner for life to fully understand and identify with magic and exhibit the same amount of interest and zeal for magic; the other reason…well, the Purge had made it quite impossible. Now, however, with the ban gone, it is safe to love whomever we wish to love."

Gwen suddenly had a thoughtful and sympathetic look on her face as she studied Merlin, and Gwaine wiggled his eyebrows inappropriately at him, who, under different circumstances, would have either been blushing madly or laughing, while Leon nudged Elyan and while Percival and Lancelot sat back at crossed their arms in satisfaction. Arthur, on the other hand, looked both interested and concerned.

Ulfric's lip curled into a sneer, and he dismissed Merlin's words as though they were nothing. "I would think that you'd be _dead_ by now, _sorcerer. _I wasn't expecting you to last this long."

"Sorry to disappoint you," Merlin said cheekily.

"Enough of this!" Arthur snapped again, his voice deepening with severity and irritation. "Ulfric, this is not why we are here. _You_ specifically are not here to insult the Court Sorcerer or to demand that I forbid Gavan from seeing your daughter. No, _you_ are here for assault.

"You have been in this chamber more times than any _guest_ this castle has ever seen. You are disrespecting my hospitality through your arrogance, rudeness, and utter disregard for the people of this kingdom. I have been far too merciful when it has come to your misdeeds. This time, you have gone too far."

Knowing that he could no longer side-step, Ulfric hissed, "The sorcerer got what he deserved."

"Oh?" Arthur asked disbelievingly. "And what was it that made him deserve such treatment?"

"Must you ask, Sire?" Ulfric yawned mockingly.

"So it was your injured pride and your hatred alone that made you attack Gavan," Arthur said disapprovingly.

"Yes," Merlin muttered to himself.

Ulfric looked offended. "Of course not."

"Then what else was it, Ulfric?" Lukas interceded. "I see that the Druid did not injure you."

Merlin rolled his eyes. Didn't he _just_ tell the moron that? _What am I? Goose liver?_ he thought sarcastically, projecting his mind to Arthur, whose lips twitched in response to his friend's comment.

"Of course he didn't," Ulfric boasted. "_Magic _will _not_ best _us_. We shall _never_ let it corrupt the best of us. I may be too late for my daughter—" he shot Ava a wrathful look "—but I believe that each of us can stop the contagion from spreading. Uther would have been proud of so loyal a subject."

This jab was meant to dig into Arthur, but he seemed unaffected. "Did Gavan use magic against you?" he asked. "Did he defend himself?"

"What does it matter?" Ulfric shrieked. "He _has_ it! Your precious _Merlin Emrys_ has it! We should be burning the curse from the land, not _admiring_ it and its demons."

Arthur stood and repeated, "Did he use magic against you?"

"All magic is used against us," Ulfric spat in paranoia. "You are blinded by the bastard that sits at your side."

Merlin gritted his teeth, and his jaw tensed. Somehow, rumor had leaked of the circumstances of his birth. He suspected that this had in large part to do with his own folly at laughing at Godwin, who had unknowingly and correctly accused him of having such a birthright, in court before he was made official Court Sorcerer. The rumor, however, had only circulated among the nobility. Those nobles who did not see Merlin through agreeable eyes used it against him every chance they had.

Arthur had wanted to punish anyone who _dared_ call Merlin that and even went so far as to give Merlin permission to deal with the insult _himself_, but Merlin denied him and told each him and each of his nodding Knights, who were quite keen on the idea, not to bother and to ignore it. That's all he wished, and his friends eventually agreed—but not without their grimaces and grumbles.

Arthur strode to Ulfric, who was being watched cautiously and carefully by a vigilant Eric. The King stood a great deal taller than the disgraceful Lord, but he did not have to stoop to stare him in the eye. His tone became harsher and was poisonously quiet. "_Did he use magic against you?_"

Ulfric glared obstinately at Arthur, and finally, he submitted to those fierce blue eyes. "No."

Lukas gaped in astonishment. Arthur spun from him. "Eric, Gaius, did you see Gavan performing magic against Ulfric or even at all?"

"No, my Lord," Eric answered. "The Druid—er—Gavan did not so much as lift a finger to defend himself. There was no gold in his eye."

"He tried to reason with Lord Ulfric, Sire," Gaius added. "I heard no verbal attacks on his part or any other reason to provoke Ulfric, and I too did not see or feel a sign of magic."

Arthur nodded. "Gavan," he asked in a considerably kinder tone. "What were you doing in Camelot today?"

Gavan swallowed. "I was hoping to meet Ava and then gather some supplies. We are still restocking after our move to Camelot from Cenred's old kingdom."

Arthur nodded and briefly exchanged a look with his council members, who, Merlin was surprised to see, all but Lukas, who seemed a little uncertain, looked positively set on punishing Ulfric.

No discussion needed. The council had decided on a short term solution. "Ulfric, you have assaulted a man on no real grounds and in a grotesque display of pride and prejudice. Eric," Arthur ordered, turning away from the Lord. "Take Lord Ulfric to the dungeons. We will have to discuss further on his punishment."

Ulfric began to struggle against the men as he was being led away. "Daughter," he began entreatingly. "Surely you know that I did what I thought was right for you?"

"You have done wrong, Father," she said, a hint of shame in her voice. "I wish it were not so. If only you could see Gavan for who he is. You'd be happy that I did not choose one of your approved suitors, one of those who lusted only after our wealth."

Ulfric's face twisted in rage, and spittle flew from his mouth. "Then you are no daughter of mine. Marry your sorcerer, and live with the pigs!"

"So be it," she sniffed, turning from her father and going to Gavan's side.

Arthur watched the scene with some compassion. "I can only hope some time in the cells will do you good, Ulfric," he said to the man.

"You are blind, Pendragon! Blinded by the very one you call friend. He will be the one first to turn on you. He has lied to you before. What makes you think he will stop now?"

"Merlin would never turn," Arthur asserted strongly and violently. "He has told me every truth."

Ulfric barked a laugh. "Truth won't change the way he lies." His little bark began morph into rather maniacal laughter. "And youth won't change the way he dies."*

The door slammed behind the two guards and Lord, and they were left with an ominous silence.

"Did anyone else," Ava began uncomfortably, "feel as though he was…_off_?"

"Off his rocker?" Gwaine muttered, causing the Round Table Knights to chuckle weakly. "Yes, the thought passed through my head now and then."

"He is not usually that…unsteady," Arthur agreed. _He _would know. The King had seen enough of the man in these chambers because of his misdemeanors.

"Or _that_ aggressive," Lord Rupert said gruffly.

"He was plenty aggressive before," Leon said.

"I don't like what he said about Merlin," Gwen added. Every face turned to their Court Sorcerer while he locked eyes with Gwen. "It sounded—" she faltered. "It sounded as though he _knew_ something."

"Funny," Merlin said musingly. "I thought much of the same thing."

She bit her lip, recognizing the gleam in Merlin's eye. "Merlin, please," she entreated fearfully. "Be careful."

Merlin smiled impishly at her. "C'mon, Gwen, you know me…"

"'I'm always careful,'" Arthur and Gaius recited with Merlin.

~…~

After Ava and Gavan had been congratulated and apologized to and after the council dispersed, having decided on the length of dungeon-time for Ulfric, Arthur and Merlin trudged wearily up the stairs, each lost in their own thoughts.

"How do you not lose your temper, Merlin?" Arthur asked curiously, breaking the silence.

"Hm?"

"I was struggling to remain collected for most of that meeting. You, on the other hand, were the one getting constantly insulted and threatened…"

Merlin began to chuckle. "Oh, believe me, Arthur. I was close to snapping a few times."

"You would have hardly believed it."

"Really? Well, you're not the most…_observant_ person anyway, are you?" Merlin teased.

He avoided a swat and began to turn towards Arthur's chambers when the King suddenly grabbed his arm and towed him away. "Oh, no," he said, pushing Merlin in a different direction. "I have something I need to show you."

Curiosity piqued, Merlin raised an eyebrow, but before he could ask, Arthur wondered, "Did you ever finish sorting through the Vaults?"

Merlin smiled excitedly. "Nope. I get so easily _distracted_ down there, Arthur. There're so many brilliant things, wonderful works of magic…I could study some of them for the rest of my life and still not be able to correctly understand what they're for. Though I have to say, you're lucky that I have no trouble figuring out the dangerous ones."

Instead of being angry at Merlin's obvious dilly-dallying, Arthur grinned, glad that his Court Sorcerer was enjoying the task. "Find anything interesting?"

Eagerly, Merlin began to chatter about the _perfect _scrying basin that he couldn't wait to begin to learn to use, the amulet that distorted reality, an enchanted armlet that could detect lies, and more, including the numerous amount of crystals, books, and intensely dangerous items that could have _easily_ destroyed half of Camelot if activated.

"I honestly cannot believe any sorcerer let _those_ weapons fall into your father's hands," Merlin was saying cheerfully. "They either hadn't known what they had or had been extraordinarily _stupid_. I disposed of them, of course, but still—Um, Arthur? What are we doing in the library?"

Merlin stopped in his tracks, frowning in confusion. Arthur smirked and grabbed at the sleeve of his jacket, pulling him on. "I'm rather surprised that you hadn't caught on," he said with genuine glee. "I was expecting the surprise to be ruined because of your rather annoying habit of putting your nose into everything."

"….Thanks," Merlin said sarcastically, still extraordinarily confused as Arthur led him.

"It would have been done earlier," Arthur said, turning into the East wing*, "but that little business with the sprite put us all off. Kind of ironic, if you think about it."

"Us?"

Arthur's obvious delight in his confusion grew, and he stopped in front of a large bookcase. "You know," he began in mock-thoughtfulness, "you really don'thave any idea, do you? Because I might also expect you to fool me into thinking—"

"No!" Merlin exclaimed exasperatedly. "What do you want me to see?"

Arthur's grin widened, and he turned to step on one of the shelves of the bookcase behind him. Suddenly, Merlin recognized and remembered. He had found a secret room in there…

The shelf sank under Arthur's weight, and the bookcase began to move. The King gave Merlin a salute and laughed, "See you on the other side!"

For a moment, Merlin nodded in agreement, his curiosity nearly killing him, but then he suddenly remembered that the bookcase did not swing back after admitting one person. The trigger that activated the door would be on the _inside_. Unless of course, there was another bookcase with another trigger that swung _outside_…

"Wait!" Merlin called after the prat—that revolving door moved _a lot_ more quickly than he remembered—but it was too late. Arthur had disappeared into the room, and a similar sized bookcase replaced the one that had been there previously.

"Never mind, then," Merlin muttered to himself.

He darted up to the bookcase and triggered the secret door. Once the ride was over, Merlin leapt off the platform and turned to see…

Arthur, arms folded and leaning against a large, clean worktable, an obviously pleased look on his face—in a room that used to be so dank and dark and absolutely coated in dust and cobwebs. The old, rickety shelving, once full of indistinguishable items and moth-eaten and mold-ridden books, was gone. Worm eaten tables, gone.

Late afternoon sunlight filled the room (since when was there a window?), which was cleaned to the last spot, work tables were covered with phials, herbs, and instruments that Merlin knew to be both physician and magician tools. There was a large, circular empty area aside of the table near the window—for practicing magic, perhaps?—and a comfortable, plain reading chair. Each wall sported a bookcase filled with both books—of course—as well as supplies and other items. A small staircase hugged a wall and led up to a loft, where Merlin spied a bed and wardrobe…and it appeared _someone_ had raided his secret stash and room in Gaius's chambers because there, propped against those stone steps, was his Sidhe staff and his very first magic book and draped across a bench, his blue cloak.

But the most impressive, most wonderful thing about the room: magic _thrummed_ in the very air.

A slow, thrilled smile began to replace Merlin's awed, open-mouthed gape, and Arthur, beaming, said, "You have _no_ idea how long it took to search for these books."

He took one up and turned it over in his hands. "Some of them were sent for from other kingdoms. Some of them Geoffrey and Gaius had hidden away; others are from the Vaults. But a majority of them—" He shook his head with a small smile. "For some odd reason, my father didn't burn them; he _hid_ them away, and what is hidden can be found."

Merlin took a book and opened it to a page with instructions on how to make—ironically enough—an aging potion. "You—you mean…"

"Yep," the King said happily. "Each of these has something to do with magic. Spell books, history, creatures, culture…It's in here somewhere. I leave it to you to figure it out, though Gwen was kind enough to _try_ to categorize them. I'm glad Aislin helped her out, or poor Gwen would have—"

"Gwen? Aislin?" Merlin breathed, overwhelmed.

Arthur nodded, still grinning like a fool.

"Yes, Kynon helped as well. The two of them fixed the door with several enchantments, somehow managed to add that window…they did a lot of the manual labor as well, I admit.

"We were going to give you rooms elsewhere in the castle," Arthur admitted, "But this room is apparently fortified with many, many charms that made the walls rather indestructible. It's probably one of the most protected rooms of the castle, so if you blow something up with _these_"—he gestured around with a smirk—"you won't destroy a good part of the castle.

"Then it's at the very center of the castle, and a perfect distance from both my chambers and Gaius's…from everything, actually. The courtyard is below, as well. I figured you'd like that."

Merlin, hardly daring to believe it, twirled around once again, eyes shining with enthrallment. This was _his_. All of it. And he was free to do with it as he pleased. His mind tumbled with possibilities of charms and enchantments...

"I take it that you like it," Arthur said with approval.

"Thank you, Arthur," Merlin beamed. "I thank you and everyone who was a part of building it for me."

"A Court Sorcerer does need his own chambers," Arthur said teasingly. "Even Gaius agreed—he seemed both pleased and almost _reluctant_ to kick you out, though I can't imagine why. I'd assume he'd be more than glad to not have to pick up after your mess anymore. But anyway, I'm sure your old bed is open if you ever need it."

Merlin, scanning his new room again with delight, suddenly spotted a small, glossy black stone—one that could sit easily on his palm and fit nicely in his pocket—near the hand Arthur was using to lean up against his worktable.

How in the world had he _missed_ that? The magic might be so subtle that a normal sorcerer would not feel its power, but there was something _so _powerful about it.

"What—is that?" he gasped.

Arthur followed his eyes and took the rock into his hand. "Ah, forgot about this." He handed it to Merlin, whose eyes widened with realization of what he was holding.

"_Where _did you get this?" he asked in awe.

Arthur's brow wrinkled. "I—I won this from my very first battle with a sorcerer. It wasn't long before you came to Camelot, actually, but I thought that—I thought it might…"

Merlin, seeing his King struggling for words, felt his heart warm with brotherly fondness and stopped him there. It _did _mean more than Merlin could possibly say. "Do you know what it is?"

"No," Arthur said. "The sorcerer was weak; he was meant to be delivering it to another, but he protected it _fiercely. _Neither my father nor I understood what the hell was so important about it, and Gaius told us it was harmless—they had mistaken it for an object of great power—so I was allowed to keep it for a keepsake." He winced, obviously reliving the memory with some regret.

Merlin turned the stone over in his hand, admiring the deep black color. "Oh, Gaius, you _liar_," he muttered, snickering.

Arthur did not appear surprised that Gaius lied. "What is it?"

"_This, _Arthur, is what we call a philosopher's stone."

"What? Isn't that a child's fable? Making gold? Eternal life?" he scoffed.

Merlin shook his head. "There are no stones that can give you eternal life, but certain stones _can _change metal to gold. Actually, we've encountered one here in Camelot, but that's beside the point. Bards often _mistake _this stone and that stone; hence the confusion. This is a very closely guarded secret among the Druids, and it is a rare treasure. Even rarer than the gold-making stone. In the Old Tongue, it's called a _sóþwundor_, a true wonder."

"What does it do?"

"It can store energy, which is probably where that story about 'eternal life' originated," Merlin said, reaching his magic towards it and reeling back in astonishment at the amount energy that was stored there and the amount of _empty space_ that he still felt there, just waiting to accept more energy.

"Whoa," he murmured. "There's quite _a lot_ there. With a proper spell—Gaius was smart to let you keep this in your possession. Clever deceit. No one would have ever suspected, and no one would have ever questioned it. No one would have ever found it."

Struck by the knowledge, Arthur said, "It's yours. Feel free to use it as you wish, just as this room. Just, please, Merlin, _try _not to hurt yourself. You know the limitations of magic far better than I do, so don't go…overboard with experimenting. I don't think we have another sorcerer to replace you _just_ yet."

Merlin laughed and smiled lopsidedly, and pocketing the stone, he snickered, "Oh, don't worry. _This _is too precious to waste for my pleasure. It will be saved for something important or when..."

Arthur suddenly shuddered at his meaning. "For _you_ to _need_ that extra energy—your magic is so powerful… for youto needthat—I can't believe it. Something utterly horrible must happen."

Merlin gave him a serious look, his deep blue eyes full of wisdom, "Always expect the worst. You never know what the future might bring."

Arthur suddenly had a pained look on his face, and he became extremely nervous and avoided Merlin's eyes. "Right, the future…" he muttered.

Merlin studied his friend for a moment before a sly, pleased smile appeared on his face. He could have teased Arthur to no end, but seeing as Arthur had just gifted him with a new room and a precious _sóþwundor, _and preferring that Arthur asked him in his own time and on his own terms for advice, he waited.

After a few moments, a jittery Arthur met his warlock's eyes. "Speaking of the future, there is a reason I decided to give you this room tonight and a reason why I brought you here alone. Gwen had wanted to see your reaction, but I convinced her against it."

"Oh?" Merlin asked.

Arthur swallowed. "I—I want to ask Gwen to marry me."

Merlin's eyes crinkled with the force of his smile, and he released a joyful laugh. "That's great, Arthur! I was hoping that it'd be soon. But why tell _me?_ I would hope that you've thought the proposal through—"

"No, of course, I have," Arthur snapped. "I have a plan, but I wanted to tell you—well, ask you—if she says yes—"

"When she says yes," Merlin corrected, his excitement and glee growing.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Merlin, shut up."

Merlin pursed his lips, and the King continued, "If—when there is a wedding, will you be the best man?"*

Merlin smiled blindly, touched and honored to have been asked. "Of course." Arthur returned his smile. "Thank you, my friend."

"So when are you going to ask her, Arthur?"

He looked uncertain. "…Tonight. That's not too soon, is it?" he asked worriedly.

"It'll be brilliant, Arthur. Gwen's going to be overjoyed. I might watch out for Elyan, though. He might be extremely protective for a little while. In fact, I'm sure the rest of them will be teasing you…"

Merlin's nonstop chatter, which conveyed his complete lack of doubt for the possibility of her rejection, seemed to boost Arthur's confidence, and suddenly, Merlin began to snigger. "I suppose I'm going to have to learn how to knock now."

Arthur blushed violently. "_Merlin_!"

Merlin just grinned innocently at him, and eventually Arthur said, "No, I suppose Guinevere is used and is aware of your rude habits by now…But, if you do happen to—er—" he stuttered awkwardly "—well, I'm sure _she_'s going to be the one that's going to get you first and kick your skinny arse half-way across the border."

Much to Arthur's wicked glee and triumph, Merlin paled at the horrifying possibility.

* * *

><p>AN: (the star notes, in order) *A lyric from "Dear Rosemary" (Foo Fighters. Brilliant song)<p>

*I'm not sure if that's what Geoffrey said in "Goblin's Gold" and was too lazy to check, so if it's wrong, let me know.

*I don't know how weddings worked at this time period, but I thought it would be sweet to make Merlin into a best man anyway

This was the longest chapter I've ever written, I think. :D So, I apologize for mistakes, because I could have easily, easily missed some. All words in the "Old Tongue" were found using an online Old English translator

Another thing: wow, I'm gathering a LOT of OC's...but they're all quite necessary, believe me, and I hope that that doesn't bug you because I'm going to have some more coming up soon. ;)

Please don't expect updates to be quick. I'm struggling to find free time (this semester is turning out to be more time consuming than the last), so bear with me. :) Thank you for your continuing support! I'm up to 200 reviews on SMN! I could hardly believe it! :D


	5. Blush

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: SURPRISE! :D I got this up a half a week earlier than usual! ;)

Right, this chapter feels a smidge off to me. Perhaps that's because I'm trying to write from a love-struck Arthur's POV. *rolls eyes* It's kinda-sorta a filler/fluff chapter, complete with the proposal (WARNING: it is incredibly cheesy, and this, I believe, is my first real attempt at some genuine Arwen fluff, so it definitely is not perfect), bonding moments between quite a few characters, which I hope will be nice to read, and some repeating hints and developments of those hints and such...

I thank **SpangleyPony**, for requesting a Kilgharrah-Merlin bonding scene. :D It may not be what you particularly expected, but here it is! ;)

And I thank the rest of you for reading and continuing to support me! You're all brilliant. :)

* * *

><p><strong>Blush<strong>

Arthur was, in a word, nauseous.

For one, he was concerned about Merlin.

The warlock impressed Arthur greatly at the meeting that afternoon, and he was proud. He admired how well his friend could mask his true feelings and emotions in situations such as this—when retaliation would have started to corrode that which the pair of them was trying to build.

In general, Merlin was just doing brilliantly as Court Sorcerer. There was really no one better suited for the job, its dangers, and its frustrations. Arthur was amazed at how far they had come in a single month, and all of it, because of Merlin—his open sincerity, his loyalty and dedication, his discretion, his sensitivity, his composure, his sense of morality and responsibility, as well as his usual idiocy and… Merlin-ness, helped ease the whole of Camelot into this new age.

Perhaps he shouldn't say _all _of it was Merlin's doing.

Word of Merlin's accomplishments had somehow, someway—Gwaine's frequent visit to the tavern just _might_ have been the cause—begun to circulate amongst the common people and nobles. He had given them all an outline of some of the larger accomplishments in his coronation speech, of course, but to his surprise and Gwaine's slightly chagrined delight, some larger details were becoming known to all. The tales were surprisingly accurate, so Arthur, even after a stern and amusing lecture to his Knights on confidentiality and drunkenness, cooled his irritation, saw the benefits, and did absolutely nothing to stop them.

His line of reasoning had been that the people _needed_ to hear truly how much Merlin had done (this was supposedly _Gwaine's_ motivation), but, in all honesty, it had been far more worth it to see Merlin's bemused face when a young lad came running up to him, all grins and dimples, and had asked him boldly and amazedly, "Is it true that you once got stung by a _serket_, Merlin Emrys? Did you _really _drink poison once to save King Arthur? Where you _really_ once thrown into the stocks for insulting him? My pappa told me that—he said he saw you both fighting with maces through the marketplace, too! But how can that be? Oh! What's it like to talk to a dragon?"

Yes, that had been priceless.

Anyway, Arthur had to be grudgingly grateful to Gwaine, who insisted that he revealed these now popular stories for just the purpose of helping Merlin out, which was _exactly_ what they were doing. The King was, in fact, eternally relieved that Gwaine had not told his lovely tavern-friends about the more delicate and personal parts of Merlin's story. There was some truth in his insistences, in that respect. What better way than to start a rumor, or spread a tale, than a good, long night at the tavern?

That man…Arthur sighed. Gwaine was a fool, but Arthur had to admit: he was rather crafty fool.

But as thrilled as Arthur was to see Merlin and Camelot adjusting, as happy as he was to see _Merlin_ himself so happy, Arthur could not help but sensing and feeling that there was something rotten in the air.*

Even now, he shuddered to recall Ulfric's words. Merlin himself, despite the strength of his mask, had faltered upon hearing them, and even he could not hide his involuntary and nearly imperceptible flinch at the words.

_Truth won't change the way he lies, and youth won't change the way he dies_.

It wasn't so much what he said as much as _how _he said it. Out of context, the words were actually true, and if one of his Knights or Gwen had said something similar in a different tone—either in jest or concern—he probably would have either nodded sympathetically and ruefully or chuckled.

Merlin was secretive by nature. He kept to himself more often than his friends wished, but they all respected and _expected_ that. He knew that the warlock would not hide from him any longer and took joy in not having to hide any longer, but he also acknowledged that Merlin _would_ lie every now and then—to protect the people he loved. He did not mind that in the slightest; that was Merlin for you, and he trusted Merlin to do what he thought was best, even if he might disagree with the methods.

Also, he knew that Merlin put his life at risk day after day, but that was not in any way different than what he himself had to do for Camelot. That was, after all, their job: to protect and defend what they held dearest.

_At the rate that we both attract trouble, _Arthur thought sarcastically, _even with Merlin's magic and my talent with a sword, it's a miracle we're still alive at all. _

They would both die defending Camelot, Arthur was sure of that, side by side. There's no other way that either he or his friend wouldprefer to depart this world. Young or grizzled, this would not change.

No, what truly bothered him…Ulfric had _laughed_, chilling and cruel. His eyes had been wild, and though Arthur suspected that the poor man, who was probably nearing on sixty years of age, was starting to become a little senile, there was nothing innocent in that statement or that hideous laughter.

Nothing innocent; everything worthy of suspicion.

And then there was that stone. He had been pleased that it had meant so much to the young warlock, but what his friend intended to use it for only intensified his ominous dread.

It scared him. He had gotten so used to Merlin's power that he sometimes forgot just how powerful he was in comparison to other sorcerers—he had long since come to the conclusion that there was little Merlin could _not_ do with his magic—and when he did remember…it struck him again and again.

Merlin might too modest to say so, but Arthur did not over-exaggerate his conclusion in the slightest. And this fact, coupled with his firm belief in Merlin and his gifts…for him to suggest that he might need that extra power—it made his insides squirm unpleasantly.

He couldn't shake his concern. It sat in the pit of his stomach like a heavy stone stuck fast in the muck of a riverbed, and it remained there, no matter how many times he tried to convince himself otherwise.

Gwen was right to tell Merlin to be careful. Something was stirring.

"Gwen," Arthur mumbled to himself, his gut churning violently.

"Hm?" Merlin asked.

"Nothing," Arthur muttered.

He had just left Merlin's chambers via the other, normal entrance. The idiot had gaped at the door and had excitedly and delightedly explained that he had thought that particular door to be a broom cupboard before a smirking Arthur told him that it wasn't practical for people to come for his aid through a _secret _revolving door. Only a few trusted people were aware of _that _entrance.

"How come _I've_ never found this?" Merlin had exclaimed, peeking down the narrow hall outside his new chambers. "I've hidden in every nook and cranny of this castle at one point or another, and I know its corridors possibly better than even _you_, Arthur. I mean, I honestly don't think you even know where the kitchens are…or the servant quarters…"

Arthur had scowled, and without defending himself (Merlin's jokes were partly true, but there was no need for the idiot to know that), he had told Merlin that the passage had been hidden behind a huge, precious tapestry depicting a map of the Five Kingdoms' boundaries and had been blocked with masonry. Anyway, with a little magic, the little passageway had been revealed, and the tapestry had been moved down the hall. A little plate reading "Court Sorcerer" was in the process of being made so that people could easily find Merlin's rooms should they ever need him.

So after being excitedly thanked once again, Arthur told Merlin that he needed to speak to Elyan and that he would need some horses and food prepared for both him and Gwen—he had invited her to go on an evening ride later. Then, after they had both departed Merlin's chambers, he shakily asked one small favor.

Merlin did not question the favor, but he expressed his dubiousness and confusion through an arched eyebrow and a small smile.

He might not understand, but he wasn't asking _Merlin _to marry him. He was asking Gwen, and it was Gwen who would understand.

A part of him worried that she would not like to see magic—more specifically _Merlin_'s magic—as a part of his idea and that she might assume that the idea itself wasn't his own since Merlin was involved, but he dismissed the worry. The message was there, and it was something between the two of them. That was what mattered.

Sighing, Merlin teased, "I suppose I'll just _have_ to put off meeting with Kilgharrah."

"Sorry to ruin your plans," Arthur said, giving him an apologetic smile. "Was there a reason you needed to go see him?"

His lanky friend made an absentminded hand gesture and avoided the question. "Never mind that. I have nothing of major importance to discuss with him," Merlin said cheerily, playing with the philosopher's stone in his pocket. "This on the other hand—this is exciting!" Merlin clapped him on the back. "Good luck with Elyan, and I'll be sure to be in your chambers in an hour. I won't dawdle."

He didn't even think to take advantage of the opening that Merlin had nearly gift-wrapped for him. He _must_ not be feeling his best. "Perfect, Merlin," Arthur said gratefully. "Thank you."

With dancing eyes and an impish grin, Merlin dashed off. Arthur watched him disappear, and drawing a deep breath to steady his nerves, the King set off for the training fields, where he knew that his Round Table Knights would be practicing to burn off some steam. He almost wished he could join them, but there really was no need. His anger at Ulfric and the frustrations of the council meeting earlier had nearly vanished and had since been replaced by the swooping, sick feeling of nervousness that crashed upon him at the oddest intervals and times.

When he reached the field, Arthur watched with satisfaction as Elyan cleverly twisted the sword from Lancelot's hand and tripped him over. The two men, panting for breath, laughed, and Elyan helped the defeated Lancelot to his feet. They thumped each other on the back fraternally, smiling and complimenting each other. They parted; Lancelot retrieved his sword, walked away, and began to stretch while Elyan moved to the water pitcher for a drink. Percival and Leon took their places on the field and began to spar, while Gwaine…he was sprawled out on a bench, sleeping and whistling through his nose.

Arthur politely and edgily waited until Elyan was done drinking before he approached him.

"Sire," Elyan said in greeting, smiling.

"That was a fine play, Elyan," Arthur said.

The dark-skinned man's countenance lit up at the praise, and his almond-shaped eyes shone. "Lancelot nearly disarmed me a few times," Elyan said modestly in his soft voice. "He should have been victor."

Gwaine suddenly groaned, flipped over into a new position, and murmured, "Damn bench."

Elyan stared at him. "I don't understand why he doesn't just slip onto the grass," he muttered in a mock-whisper to Arthur.

"Maybe that's because I don't feel like it, _Elyan_," Gwaine grumbled defensively. He tilted his head back further, so he could see Arthur and Elyan from upside-down. "Oh, hello, there, Arthur. Come to spar? I can imagine you'd want to." His voice became dark. "What he said about Merlin…"

"Not here, Gwaine," he warned, his tone betraying his own feelings toward Ulfric.

Gwaine just huffed.

"Did you need something, Arthur?" Elyan asked, studying him. "You're not dressed for sparring."

Arthur's heart began to flutter uncomfortably fast, and rather hoping to just get things over with, he asked, "Could I talk to you alone? Perhaps away from this lazy bum here?"

"Heard that."

Elyan, his dark eyes curious, nodded his head, and Arthur led them away from the field, where no one would hear them.

"Is something the matter?" Elyan suddenly asked when Arthur did not begin to speak right away.

"No, no. I mean—" Arthur drew in a deep breath and began, "I should have talked to you sooner. It was rather inconsiderate of me; I apologize for that, but….well, what I mean to say—since you're her elder brother…"

A wide grin spread across the young Knight's face as he figured out what it was the King was trying to say. "You mean to ask Gwen to marry you."

Arthur's nervousness lessened considerably. "Yes. Yes, I do."

Elyan's eyes shimmered with glee. "I'm glad she found someone to love, Arthur, and I'd be proud and glad to call you 'brother'. How the tides have turned for her! When will you ask?" he asked eagerly.

Arthur began to smile, touched and heartened by Elyan's words. "Tonight," he said with much more surety than he had in Merlin's chambers. "Since your father is not here to speak for her," he added kindly, placing a hand on his future brother-in-law's shoulder, "I'm glad that you're here."

Elyan blinked, stunned. "You sound almost relieved. What? Did you think I'd disapprove? I'm _thrilled_ for the pair of you. I was hoping that you'd ask her soon."

"Merlin had thought you might be a bit…overprotective."

Elyan stared before breaking out into sniggers. "Gwen can take care of herself. If you do her wrong, she'll sort you out more quickly and more effectively than _I _ever could. Don't underestimate her."

Arthur laughed. "Wouldn't _dream_ of it, Elyan."

Elyan began to snicker. "I think Merlin's been too much of an influence on you, Arthur. I believe you just put one of _his_ ramblings to shame."

"I haven't been this nervous since the day of my coronation…no, I don't think anything could compare to _that_, but this is something of that caliber," Arthur admitted reluctantly.

Over the past few months, he had opened up to his Round Table Knights, not to the same degree as Merlin or Gwen, but, because the two of them were around him and his Knights so often, and because the Knights were steadily becoming strong friends, it was inevitable that he should be honest and open with them all.

"Why?" Elyan asked in disbelief.

Arthur scowled. "Have _you_ ever asked someone to marry you, Elyan?" he asked jokingly in his defense.

"Can't say I have."

"My point exactly."

"She loves you; you love her," Elyan said. "She'll accept your proposal without hesitation, Arthur."

_So Merlin said too. _The King sighed and avoided Elyan's soft gaze. "It's at times like this I really wish I had my father…and my mother with me…to talk to," Arthur murmured. "I'm afraid that I'm going to be a complete fool."

Elyan shrugged. "Well, if so, you'll be _her _fool."

Arthur chuckled, and he held out his hand to Elyan. "Thank you, Elyan."

The Knight gripped his forearm and then embraced Arthur quickly. "You won't need it, but I'll say it anyway: good luck."

~…~

Arthur's fingers twirled the stem in his hands, admiring the blossom's full shape, its perfect color, and the subtle glimmers of gold shooting through the sunny petals.

"Will that do?" Merlin asked.

"Perfectly. Did you enchant it like I asked?"

Smacking himself on the forehead, Merlin swore unintelligibly in the Old Tongue, and he gently took the flower from his King's fingers. "I actually _did _remember to protect it from being smashed wherever you decide to hide it, but I couldn't remember this?" he asked himself. The spell rolled gracefully off of his tongue, "_Aréode __hrinenesse __æt__ hire__."*_

The flower's petals let off a brief soft glow, and Merlin, handing back the flower, said, "_Now _I have."

"What is _ar__é__ode?_" Arthur asked, stumbling over the pronunciation. Magic's language constantly fascinated him, and he didn't recall ever enjoying learning so much in any other subject but swordplay and battle tactics. "I didn't recognize that one."

Merlin smiled, and his eyes shone. "I wouldn't expect you to know that one!" he laughed. "Never had reason to use that before now. I told it to blush at her touch."

Arthur, for some inexplicable reason, felt his face burning faintly in response. "A romantic poet, are you, Merlin?" he teased.

Merlin blinked at him and snorted. "I'm no romantic, Arthur. Today, that's _you_. Go on!" He nudged the blonde King into motion. Arthur, knees locked, stumbled. "She's probably on her way now."

The King's heart leapt and skipped, and he put his hand to his forehead. "Merlin…"

"Are you _nervous_? You told me long ago that you didn't get nervous," Merlin goaded. Arthur remembered that particular conversation with a grimace. _Damn it_. "Where's that prattish, confident noble now, you arrogant Pendragon?" he teased in exasperation, stormy blue eyes gleaming with jest.

"And where's that wise, cool-headed Court Sorcerer?" Arthur shot back. "No inspiring speeches for me now, _Mer_lin?"

"Not today; today, you have the indolent, insolent fool of a manservant—your first true friend—as your advisor. I think that's the part of me you need right now. So go already! Before I decide to find the Court Sorcerer part of me and send you to the courtyard myself. I don't think you'd enjoy the ride."

Merlin smiled his 'Dragoon-smile', that diabolical smile that Arthur couldn't help but respect and fear at the same time, before continuing, "She's been waiting for you for a long time, Arthur. And you've been waiting for her even _longer_. Oh, don't give me that look," he laughed. "_You _kissed her _first_ after all. Why keep yourself waiting? Why keep _her_ waiting?"

Arthur's mouth snapped closed in chagrin, and he stared at the flower in his hand, sighing. What was his problem? He wanted this; she wanted this. Merlin and Elyan alike were joyous at his decision; the people would approve. Where _was_ the Arthur Pendragon who stood before sorcerers and monsters? Who spoke before an audience of thousands about returning magic to the land? Who defeated countless foes and creatures without so much as a flinch? Who had the capability to hold his ground against Uther Pendragon's rage? Who had the responsibility of an entire kingdom on his shoulders?

Surely he could calm his nerves enough to commit himself to the one he loves without quivering?

Queen Guinevere…the thought made him tingle all over.

When he looked up, Merlin was watching him expectantly, a small smile on his face. He had replaced his jacket with his cloak: he was obviously planning on departing to meet with Kilgharrah shortly.

"Thank you. I needed that," Arthur said, his determination strengthening. His nausea calmed, but it still remained.

His friend—because that is what he was there as…not Court Sorcerer, not manservant, but both…his one _friend—_threw back his head and laughed. "I thought you might," he said cheekily, his smile reaching into his eyes.

Arthur tucked the flower into the basket that Merlin had given him, confident that no harm would come to it, and he quickly gave Merlin a one-armed hug in farewell.

"Oh, Arthur! One last thing…" Merlin called to him as he began to walk away.

Arthur, curious, turned to face the lanky young man.

"I feel as though I have to remind you," he explained with a smile. His grin faded, and he said with complete seriousness, "Just don't be a prat."

Arthur retorted instantly, "Only if you promise not to trip on a root on your way to visit Kilgharrah."

The two stared at each other stubbornly and unblinkingly until they both erupted into laughter.

~…~

Arthur was tying the basket of food to his horse when Gwen made her appearance.

She snuck up behind him and slipped her arms around his waist, startling him out of his wits and causing him to yelp.

"Oh! Gwen!" he exclaimed. She began to laugh, and he, inhaling her flowery scent and squeezing her gently, enveloped her in a hug.

"You look beautiful," he murmured into her ear. Her long curly hair was pulled back into one thick plait, and she wore a beautiful dark plum-colored riding cloak over her simple tunic and leggings. Her face was alight with excitement and now flushed with modest embarrassment at his compliment.

"Thank you," she said with that smile that made his heart pitter-patter. Suddenly, she peeked over his shoulder and spun around. "Why are you doing that yourself?" she asked, pointing to the attached basket. "Where's Merlin?"

"He wanted to visit with Kilgharrah later," Arthur said smoothly, extremely grateful that Merlin went so often to visit his dragon friend that it wasn't an uncommon thing to say.

Gwen did not question, but she nodded her head sympathetically as she mounted her horse. Arthur followed, and they began to ride. "I could imagine why he'd want to see him after what happened today. I know he _says _not to worry, but…I suspect those words hurt him far more than he lets on."

"I know they do," Arthur admitted. "That's why I'm so amazed that he manages to hide his anger so well. I wish I could say that about myself."

Gwen reached across their horses and brushed his arm. "You _can_, Arthur! You did _brilliantly _today. Sure, you were angry, but so were most of the people in that chamber. I myself wanted to slap the man for some of the things he said; Merlin probably wanted to blast him with lightning. But that doesn't _matter_. Today, you were the King that Uther failed to be." She smiled, showing that she meant no offense, and Arthur immediately returned her smile. "I'm proud of you. You and Merlin…" she shook her head with a grin. "Camelot is a new place because of you two. I hardly recognize it."

"You've had just as much a part in the change as Merlin and I," Arthur said, latching his eyes to her wonderful, tender brown eyes. It was true; in the past month, her input had been invaluable, and she had already diverted a few major crises with her ideas.

Gwen blushed. _Gods! She's gorgeous…._

Admiring her openly, Arthur said playfully, "Come now, Gwen. I didn't invite you on this ride to discuss matters of court."

"Then why have you?" she asked innocently, a small smile playing at the edges of her lips. "Break from the palace, I assume?"

Arthur grinned and spurred his horse into a run. "You'll have to catch me to find out!"

Gwen released a beautiful, bell-like laugh, and her white mare's thumping hooves immediately accompanied his horse's gait.

Their laughter bounced across the trees, and once, when Arthur turned to see how far Gwen was behind him, he was very nearly unseated by a low-hanging branch, much to Gwen's amusement.

When he reached their destination, he abruptly stopped his horse and leapt down. Once Gwen had entered the clearing, he met her, and with shivers running down his spine and laughter in his eyes, he swung her down from her horse and deeply kissed her.

She smiled against his mouth, and far too soon, she had to break away, breathless from giggles and from his extremely passionate kiss.

He squeezed her hand before dropping it to tether the horses. He took a few calming breaths and took his time, waiting, waiting….

"Arthur," she suddenly gasped. "Is this—?"

"Yes," he said gently, not turning. "You remember?"

"How could I forget?" she whispered. "You took me here—our first real—oh, the trouble we got into! This…is one of my best, most cherished memories. I haven't been here since, you know."

_Perfect_, Arthur thought. He didn't realize that the small clearing, with its little bubbling stream and colorful wildflowers, meant just as much to her as it did to him.

"Thank you for bringing me here," she said. "Do you need help? I could help with the food."

"No, it's alright," Arthur said, shifting the basket and blanket under his arm.

Gwen surveyed him curiously. "How you've changed, Arthur Pendragon."

"And I suppose that meets your approval?" Arthur asked, not understanding.

Gwen bit her lower lip tenderly, fighting a smile, her eyes telling more than her voice could.

_Ah_, he suddenly blushed, knowing she was speaking of his transformation from spoilt, arrogant boy to the man he was now.

"Do you remember telling me that you sometimes wished that you could buy some land and become a farmer?" Gwen was asking gleefully. She obviously was still tickled by it.

Chuckling, Arthur laid out the blanket. "How could I forget?" he parroted.

Gwen took the basket from his arms, and smirking, she said softly, "Do you still feel that way?"

Arthur considered it for a moment before he replied, "No…and it's not just because I'm King now and am obligated to my kingdom…it's because—well—I have everything I could ever need or want right here: in Camelot."

Gwen beamed at his answer and averted her eyes from his steady gaze to set down the basket.

When she turned her back, the young King smiled faintly, and with a pounding heart, he slipped the yellow rose from its hiding place and gently tugged a ring from his finger—his mother's ring.

It was now or never.

"I—I have something for you," he said quietly.

She brushed a stray curl that had fallen from her plait behind her ear and looked up at him curiously.

_So stunning…_

He revealed the yellow rose and took her hand, easing the stem into her fingers, just as she had done a month ago at his father's grave.

The yellow rose was symbolic of friendship and new beginnings, and amongst all the white flowers of peace and crimson of mourning, Gwen had been the only one to bring a yellow rose to place on his father's grave, the day before he revealed Merlin to Camelot. He knew Gwen loved flowers, and she believed in the power of their symbolism and meaning.

That moment—and the conversation that followed—would remain with him until the very end of his days.

"Arthur, it's beautiful," she whispered. "How did you—?" Suddenly, she gasped.

The petals of the sunny, yellow rose were becoming streaked with veins of a steadily darkening color, and the glow and glimmer of magic—subdued gold, pink, and red—pulsed around its blossoms and kissed at her hands.

His cue to begin to kneel….

Enthralled with the transformation, Gwen watched as the new color slowly swirled and spiraled up the yellow, leaving behind no sign of its previous state. Once the magic had completed its work, there, in Gwen's hand, was no longer a yellow rose, but a red rose—the universal symbol of devotion and love.

She fingered at the petals with trembling fingertips. "Wow," she breathed.

"Guinevere."

Gwen looked baffled to find Arthur kneeling before her, holding out a ring to her, and before she could recover and before he could lose his head, he held her eyes, and asked with a shy smile, "There's one thing missing from Camelot. She needs a Queen—a Queen who loves every blade of grass, every cracked flagstone, and every worn trail, a Queen who loves Camelot's people as unconditionally as she loves me and one that the people love in turn. Gwen, you are that Queen in all but title, but more importantly, you're the Queen for me. Will you do me the honor…of becoming my wife?"

A slow, slow smile began to creep onto Gwen's lips, and happy tears began to gather in her eyes. She suddenly tackled him, throwing her arms around his neck and knocking them both to the ground.

Her lips met his, and her long, slender fingers tangled themselves in his hair. The kiss was rather violent, but it soon settled into the most sweet, tender kiss he had ever received from her.

She pulled away, lips hovering over his for a brief moment, and after brushing at her eyes and releasing a shaky giggle, she cuddled against him, looked up into his sky-blue eyes, and smiled. "Yes. _Yes_."

Arthur brushed a thumb across her cheekbone, his swooping nausea morphing into a soaring exhilaration.

And so, without further ado, he slid the ring onto her finger—right where it belonged. "I love you," he murmured.

Gwen's warm brown eyes melted as she replied, "Always."*

~…~

"What is _that_, young one?" Kilgharrah asked immediately as he landed before Merlin.

Hearing the awed, surprised tone in the dragon's voice, Merlin removed the philosopher's stone that Arthur had given him and presented it to his friend.

"A _sóþwundor!" _the dragon exclaimed in a hushed tone, eyes gleaming.

"Arthur managed to keep this for years. He gave it to me as a gift of good-will and as an apology, I think, for all that he has had to do in Uther's name when it concerned magic."

_Apology has long since been accepted, my friend_, Merlin thought fondly as he admired the stone.

Kilgharrah surveyed it with keen eyes. "This is a precious gift. I have not seen one of these in at least a century! Curious objects…even the dragons don't know the full extent of a _sóþwundor'_s power." Merlin gave him a perplexed look, and the dragon continued, "It is an external source of energy, yes, but there is something _more_. You feel it, do you not?"

And so Merlin did. It was a pulse, a touch, a caress with the force of an infant's exhale against his mind. Calming, mysterious, peaceful, humbling, and awing…Kilgharrah was right. There was something more to its power. Something untouchable and unreachable and still…_there_. It was almost as though the stone…had a mind of its own, _feelings _of its own. He didn't even think Arthur was oblivious to it. Why _else_ would he have kept it so long?

"Do you suppose other sorcerers can feel its magic?"

"_Sóþwundor_ stones are formed from fallen stars by the Old Religion. Only true beings of magic can sense their power, but beware: any magical creature or person—whether born of the Old Religion or not—can use it…if they can correctly recognize it and if they are capable of extending their minds to the stone, which, I admit, is far and few between."

Merlin released a sigh of relief. "So Morgana…?"

The dragon began to laugh, which, for Merlin, was answer enough.

"Do not squander or—gods forbid—lose it, Merlin," Kilgharrah finally warned when his amusement ran dry. "This—this can one day save us all."

"I know," Merlin assured, pocketing the jet-black stone. "But that is a problem for another day," he said, shifting edgily.

Kilgharrah's eyes narrowed, and he guessed, "There was another one, wasn't there, young warlock?"

The Dragon-Lord nodded jerkily and stared at his feet. "I don't know what to do about them, Kilgharrah. Gaius thought I should tell Arthur, but I don't_ know anything_," he hissed, kicking at the ground in frustration.

The dragon sighed. "I cannot say whether you are right or wrong to keep this from the young Pendragon—I know no more than you."

"I can't put them from my mind," Merlin grumbled. "It's eating at me. Night and day."

"Was there anything different about this one?"

"I felt…" Merlin paused. "I felt as though the poison and the magic were separate of each other. The poison flowed through the body in its own course, but the magic—once it had entered the system…it moved differently."

Kilgharrah harrumphed. "I assume that what we had previously assumed—that the magic was used to _enhance _the poison—is wholly wrong. As much as I may know of healing magic, I know little of the human's methods of healing. Plants, herbs— I'm a carnivore. What use are plants to me? I can name them and recall their basic uses, but you humans have gotten crafty with them. _Sorcerers _even more so."

"Do you have _any_ idea what this elixir might be?" Merlin asked helplessly. "Any vague and fuzzy opinion would be worth something."

"Shouldn't you be more concerned with _what _they are doing in Camelot?" Kilgharrah asked sensibly.

"My instincts are telling me that that poison—" he shuddered "I tried to think about why they are infiltrating the city and what it is that they want, but everything turns me back to it."

"I wish I could disagree," the golden dragon muttered.

"Is it possible," Merlin began slowly, trying to quell his disgust at the idea that had been turning in his mind, "to latch spells onto a poison or medicine, so that it acts like a vessel, carrying the spell—any spell totally unrelated to healing—along as the herbs are ingested?"

"Like that of a protective pendant?" Kilgharrah surmised to himself. "Or transforming amulet?"

"Yes, except _inside_ the body," Merlin clarified, his tone dark.

"That is a clever observation, Merlin. It _would_ explain why the bodies disintegrate to nothing, but I have never heard of such a thing being accomplished or practiced. It sounds like tricky business—binding so Dark a spell onto what was formed from Earth herself: living matter. A wicked piece of magic as well to _force_ a spell into a human being's system in such a way."

The giant dragon shook his head, a deep rumble shaking his massive chest. "I'd put little faith into this explanation, young one."

"I suppose," Merlin murmured uncomfortably with a resigned sigh. "I suppose I'll have to wait until I get more information."

"That is all you can do," Kilgharrah hummed sagely.

Merlin smirked humorlessly, hating the feeling of defenselessness when there was something potentially dangerous stirring in the streets of Camelot. "Apparently, that's all I'm good for right now."

The Great Dragon's dark gold eyes instantly narrowed at his bitter tone. "Something else is troubling you, young warlock. Speak your mind. You needn't hide from me."

Merlin ran a hand through his hair and sat, hugging his knees. "I shouldn't have to hide from Arthur or Gwen either," he whispered. "I'm still pretending, aren't I?"

"What are you hiding from them?" Kilgharrah asked kindly, lowering his massive head.

"Ulfric," Merlin explained. "He was brought in again today…"

He proceeded to tell the dragon everything, leaving not a single word of Ulfric's rants and threats out. Even though Merlin felt the anger rolling off of the dragon and noticed the large, barbed tail twitching with irritation, Kilgharrah did not once interrupt.

"I dunno why I'm feeling this way," Merlin admitted. "I've heard it all my life." He adopted a different tone of voice—high-pitched and sarcastic. "'Burn the sorcerer!' 'Magic is evil!' 'Look, it's Hunith's bastard!'" He sighed. "I've heard each and every variant and form, heard it in many different tones and from many different people…" He barked a bitter laugh.

"It's so… _petty_. I had learned not to let the words bother me long, long ago. Sure, they pricked, but overall, I was never bothered. _I _knew the truth; they did not. I _am _magic, so of course I knew to dismiss society's lies about sorcery, and I knew that my parents would have married properly hadn't it been for Uther's Purge.

"_This _is the truth, and for the whole of my life, they didn't know—how could they? I forgave them for their ignorance and confusion. That wasn't entirely their fault. But now after everything that's happened, now that I'm Court Sorcerer and Arthur's King….they _do _know."

Merlin bit his lip and released a shaky breath. "It seems so much more offending now than it ever had _then_, when I was just that simple peasant, that scared manservant. Why does the ignorance continue, Kilgharrah? Why can't they see?

"Perhaps I'm just expecting too much," Merlin muttered. "I _know _I'm being insensitive and impatient; I think I may have subconsciously deluded myself, let my guard down, looked at everything a bit _too _optimistically…They may know the truth now, but they do not understand. Will they ever?"

Kilgharrah was silent, and he lowered his snout to Merlin, gently nudging it against him in a resemblance of an embrace. Merlin, a smile twitching at the edges of his mouth, wrapped his arms around the snout briefly.

"Stay strong, young one. There may be no reason for them to continue believing these lies—not when you are proof in the flesh that they are _gravely _mistaken—but there is every reason for them to take time to adjust. You are aware, painfully aware, of this—I know, I shouldn't preach—but, your patience must be tried once more. Unfortunately, it is necessary. Before long, your steadiness, perseverance, and loyalty will be rewarded, just as you have been rewarded by being named Court Sorcerer. This is a step, and you've nearly leapt it."

While the words were not new to Merlin (he had heard them from a mixture of himself, Arthur, Gwen, Gaius, and his mother), his hurt and pain began to secede in response to his dragon's repeating of them, and reason once again took place.

"Then—" an amused light gleamed in his dark gold eye "—there will be every opportunity for you to say 'I told you so' to all of those idiotic fools that tried to trample our spirit. Like that poor, misguided piece of trash rotting in Camelot's dungeons."

Merlin began to laugh. Kilgharrah hummed with pleasure at the change in Merlin's posture, eyes, and face.

"I'm just being silly," he said sheepishly. "Thank you."

"Not silly," Kilgharrah disagreed. "Just human."

Merlin was about to reply, when he was interrupted by loud crashing and snapping branches.

Immediately on guard, Merlin stiffened and directed his narrow-eyed, suspicious gaze towards the source of the noises, hand beginning to raise itself unconsciously in defense…

Kilgharrah chuckled. "Rest easy, young warlock. It is—"

"MERLIN!" Arthur suddenly broke through the ring of vegetation bordering their clearing. His hair was a mess and his clothes and face dirtied and scratched, but other than these signs—Merlin had been, for a moment, horrified that something had happened—of a mad dash and escape from an equally mad villain, there was nothing suggesting trouble. No, Arthur was actually..._beaming_ like the summer sun at high noon.

Merlin, annoyed and relieved, was about to reproach Arthur for scaring the hell out of him, but when the prat nearly fell face first into the dirt in his excitement, Merlin transformed his scolding into a spell that caught him before he could break his nose.

And that was perhaps when the full implication of Arthur's wild, glazed eyes and his blissful, widening smile hit him with the force of a swinging mace.

"Merlin!" Arthur exclaimed breathlessly. "She—she…Gwen and I—"

Merlin's cares and worries disappeared, and a grin rivaling that of Arthur's spread across his face, and he teased, "Might want to complete the first thought before trying another. You might hurt yourself."

Arthur cuffed Merlin around the head fondly and ruffled his hair, and he said, "Gwen accepted."

"Congratulations, Arthur," he said gleefully. "Where is the Queen-to-be?"

"I dropped her off at the palace after we ate—made some arrangements—and since it was rather late already when we finished finalizing things, she went to bed; she told me to apologize for her and to say that she's hoping to talk with you tomorrow morning."

Nodding in satisfaction at Gwen's message, Merlin swung his eyes to the gleaming stars above and realized that it was indeed very late already.

_Time flies_, he thought absently.

"So…when's the big day?" the warlock asked, nudging his King.

"A week's time," Arthur stated proudly. "That'll be plenty of time for preparations."

"Joy," Merlin muttered, wincing. As happy as he was to be a part of the celebrations, he wasn't looking forward to _preparing _them. There was going to be a _lot _of work cut out for him…and it felt as though he had only just recovered from the amount of effort it took to prepare Arthur's coronation and Uther's funeral.

Fortunately, Arthur did not hear the sarcastic comment, but Kilgharrah snickered at Merlin's tone.

"Hello, Kilgharrah," Arthur finally got around to greeting.

"This is wonderful news, young Pendragon," the dragon said with a happy grin. "The time of Albion is becoming clearer and cleared each day. Dear Guinevere"—Merlin grinned, knowing that Kilgharrah had held a very, very soft spot for Gwen since the very moment he met her—"will make a wonderful Queen, and Camelot will flourish with her at your side in ways that you cannot possibly imagine. I wish you both the best of luck."

A sudden look of revelation came over Arthur and he said formally, "Would you like to be present at the wedding, Kilgharrah?"

Merlin's mouth dropped, and he and Kilgharrah met bemused eyes. Their nonverbal conversation went something like this:

_ He _can't _be serious?_

_I think—I think he _is!

Both dragon and Dragon-Lord, after a few moments of shocked silence, simultaneously erupted into snorts and thunderous laughter.

"I _really_ don't think that's the best idea, Arthur," Merlin finally said, wiping his eyes.

Kilgharrah was still chuckling, but he watched the pair thoughtfully.

"And why not?" Arthur asked patiently, not fazed or embarrassed by their reaction to his question. In fact, there was a smug smile on his face.

"I _think_ you need to head back to the castle, Arthur. You might have second thoughts in the morning."

"No, Merlin. I'm serious. Why can't Kilgharrah make an appearance if he chose?"

Merlin bit his lip. They had decided weeks ago upon slowly—and by slowly, he meant _slowly_—revealing Kilgharrah's existence to the world. The plan was simple: Kilgharrah was now free to fly in the daytimes and should now be unafraid to flying near human settlements. Over time, people would begin to become accustomed to seeing the dragon flying over their villages and towns peacefully, and they would soon learn that he had no intention of attacking or harming them. Eventually, they would no longer fear his presence near them and be more comfortable seeing him around, and eventually, whenever the time came that Merlin should need to call upon him for help anywhere and at anytime, Kilgharrah would not be met with flaming arrows and spears and instead be met with cheers and smiles.

"There's no more opportune time to introduce him to the people of Camelot!" Arthur exclaimed. "Sure, they've seen him and heard enough about him to not be frightened any longer, but if you're going to be an essential ally in times to come, Kilgharrah, neither you nor Merlin should have to deal with the distraction of nervous soldiers and people. They need to be even _more _accustomed. Your presence at the wedding would prove that I value you as more than an ally but also as a friend. Your reputation...it will improve."

Merlin blinked in astonishment, and Kilgharrah himself looked impressed.

"That is a decently sound idea, young King," the great dragon rumbled.

"I—I agree," Merlin mused, thinking into the future. "There's only a few minor precautions…"

"So you'll be there?" Arthur asked hopefully.

"I will be there."

"Gwen'll be pleased," Arthur said. "You know how fond she is of you—"

Suddenly, the situation became too much for Merlin to bear, and completely giddy, he began to laugh hysterically once again, the force of his laughter making him double over.

Arthur and Kilgharrah looked at each other with looks that reflected their similar opinions and questions about the bizarre young man before them before they both turned to stare at him.

"This—" Merlin began to explain breathlessly, clutching at a pain in his ribs, "This is going to be one _hell _of a wedding!

* * *

><p>AN: *Quote reference from Shakespeare's "Hamlet" (Gosh, AP English, WHAT are you doing to me?)<p>

*Created spell myself with an Old English translator. I tried following Latin rules, so hopefully that is actually grammatically sound. :P (Yes, I'm a nerd, and I do care if the spells are grammatically correct)

*A slight commemoration to Bon Jovi's song "Always". Very pretty song, if you want to check it out.

I hope you've all enjoyed this. This chapter was an oddball to write, for sure. :P Excuse my errors, if you will, and mention anything abominable so that I can fix it!


	6. Shattered Glass

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: Hello, guys. :D I'm sorry for the major delay. This would have been up a few days ago if I hadn't had a swim meet this weekend and the most ridiculous English assignment to do. I had to write THREE 2+ page essays on ONE novel, and I had to finish "Tess of the D'Urbervilles" for Tuesday. *rolls eyes*

I have to apologize to those who were looking forward to the wedding scene. It is not is this chapter. :) BUT, there are other scenes that quite a few readers were looking forward to. Some action, and oh, beware more sappiness in the Merlin-Gwen scene. I can't seem to help myself. :P The wedding will be in the next chappie, I promise.

*evil grin* And I hope you're ready. The whole story's been building up, building up...You know, it's actually taking far longer than I thought it would; I've been wanting to end the last two chapters the way this one ends... Anyway, the plot line is going to move a lot more quickly now, I hope.

Thanks for reading :D And enjoy.

* * *

><p><strong>Shattered Glass<strong>

Merlin nearly panicked when Arthur did not stop at the edge of the forest with him and instead continued to saunter noisily out into full sight of the guards patrolling the walls of Camelot.

"_Arthur_," he hissed, lunging forward and grabbing the King by the sleeve. He forcefully yanked him back into the safe haven of shadows. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he whispered, eyes scanning the high walls meticulously. He sighed with relief when he saw that none of the guards seemed to have noticed Arthur's thoughtless and obvious movements.

Arthur gave him a strange look, a look that suggested that he was concerned for Merlin's well-being. "I'm…going to the castle?" he said slowly in a question, completely bemused by his Court Sorcerer's odd behavior. He began to snicker, and he drawled in that mocking, condescending tone of his, "You do realize that I'm King? Kings don't _sneak _into their own castles, _Mer_lin."

Merlin gaped, a sudden embarrassment making his cheeks flush, and he released Arthur with uncooperative fingers. It seemed as though gravity was flipping upside down or as though he was suddenly awakening from an all-too-real dream. Reality just… _Gods_, Merlin breathed to himself.

In order to save face, Merlin responded cheekily, just a moment off beat, "What is it with you ruining my fun today?"

Arthur smirked at him and began to walk again, but Merlin nervously hesitated a moment too long. The young King turned back to him, studying him with a quirked eyebrow, and Merlin, with a wavering smile, stepped out of the tree line.

A look of realization suddenly appeared in Arthur's crystal blue eyes, and Merlin flinched uncomfortably and swore to himself.

"I hope you know, Merlin," Arthur said gently, "that you shouldn't have to sneak around either….unless, of course, you have _need_ to, though I can't imagine a time you'd need to. Not anymore."

"Yeah," Merlin muttered, avoiding Arthur's eyes. "It just—well, I didn't think…"

"You _never_ think."

Merlin grinned ruefully. "Old habits die hard, I suppose."

Perhaps it was Merlin's imagination, but he could have sworn that Arthur's sky blue eyes softened with sympathy.

The pair began to walk again, Merlin rather awkwardly so. It felt _so _strange and discomforting to him to be walking in full sight of the Camelotian soldiers, and it felt even stranger to consider it strange in the first place.

It was a rather vicious cycle of strangeness.

The young King drew an arm about his friend's bony shoulders, and he said, "I know this might be a novel experience for you—actually entering the city through the _front_ gates at this time of night—but nothing's stopping you from doing so again. Just tell the guards next time so that they can expect your return…In fact, I'm going to make that an official order."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Is that really necessar—?"

Arthur cut off his protest with his 'official order', and he commanded in his no-nonsense, you-had-better-listen-to-me-I'm-the-King tone, "Remember to inform the guards when you go off somewhere. If you don't turn up one morning…" he trailed off with grimace.

"Yes, Sire!" Merlin saluted mockingly.

"I'm serious, Merlin."

"I can see tha—Whoa, déjà vu…We've had this conversation before, haven't we?"

The moment he asked, he, of course, perfectly recalled the situation in which the same conversation was held—well, with parts reversed—and he could see Arthur did as well. No answer was needed, and Arthur continued to give him a searching, expectant look.

Merlin sighed. It was an appealing offer and an order he would _like _to follow to appease his master, mentor, and friends, who he knew were often concerned with his safety (understatement of a lifetime). However, when it came to his "profession," it might be a liability and a waste of time to talk to the guards before he left and after he returned. It would be rather annoying as well, and it wasn't exactly…practical to stop or to be stopped when he needed to get the hell out of or into the city. Furthermore, Arthur might not be able think of reasons that Merlin would _need_ to secretively sneak in and out of Camelot, but _Merlin _sure could. But then again, once the guards got used to seeing him pass in and out, they would soon learn when and when not to question him; bonds, friendships, and connections might be formed…eyes might open.

"Fine," Merlin finally submitted. "I'll _try_, but things may get…complicated."

"That's all I can ask for," Arthur admitted, relenting to the fact that he would get no further promise from his Court Sorcerer.

They had reached the large gates by this point, and Arthur nodded politely at the guards while Merlin nervously and hesitantly slunk through the gates, his instincts shrieking _"this is wrong"_ at him. He pulled up his hood unconsciously as he went only to end up pushing it sheepishly back down the instant he realized that this action was extremely stupid.

The guards looked startled to see Merlin there, and he saw one of them motion to Arthur.

Curiously, the guard asked, "Where did you pick him up, my Lord? He—"

Arthur immediately silenced the guard. "Is quite capable of sneaking in and out of the city and has done so _multiple _times in the past," he finished brusquely. Merlin had to hide his smile at the guard's baffled look. "And _where_ he has gone is no business of yours, Henry. You should know that, as your Court Sorcerer, he will be entering and leaving the city at all hours, and there will be times when you will _have_ to allow him to do so without receiving a single word of explanation. I will need to talk with all of the ranks of guards tomorrow on this matter and on his privileges. I should have made these points clear long ago, and I'm sorry that I did not."

"Of—of course, Sire," the guard said dubiously, eyes flickering to the cloaked, uncomfortable man waiting for the King. "Good night."

"Not so good. I certainly hope it does not rain on you tonight," Arthur said, his tone switching from firm to slightly more amicable as his eyes went to the cloudy night sky. "Goodbye, Henry."

Once the guard had resumed his patrolling—not before whispering something to a fellow guard—Arthur frowned and sighed as he returned to Merlin. "The _nerve_ of some people," he fumed quietly.

"They'll come around," Merlin said sensibly with a small smile. "Guards are _hired _to be suspicious and careful, after all, aren't they? Can't help for being nosy. It is their job."

"But they shouldn't be untrusting of true allies," he growled angrily.

"Perhaps. But when it comes to me…I have realized I still have a lot to prove to them, Arthur," Merlin said thoughtfully, his eyes relentlessly scanning as they walked through the Lower Town. He had learnt his lesson; do not assume that you're safe in an empty street, and do not assume that you're not being watched.

Evil prowls everywhere.

"So what you're saying is they'll begin to trust you _after _you single-handedly save them from a few more invasions, immortal armies, and giant flying lizards?" Arthur asked sarcastically.

"Not single-handedly," Merlin disagreed modestly. "But…yes. I think you've got it in one. The more they see my magic being used for you and Camelot, the more they'll trust magic and me. You know what they say: seeing is believing."

"I've never liked that proverb," Arthur grumbled grudgingly. "But haven't you been doing magic in public anyway?"

"For menial things: healing, chores, small favors. I haven't done anything that screamed 'I'm-loyal-to-Camelot-and-there's-absolutely-nothing-that-will-change-that'… except for what happened with that wyvern and that old sorcerer a few weeks ago. And I suppose you can count the sprite, but that wasn't _exactly_ what I would call—"

Arthur interrupted him with a snort. "_That _was enough for some people."

"But barely enough for others. Hardly effected Ulfric in the slightest," he said bitterly.

Arthur cringed, and his eyes darkened at the mention of Ulfric. "And you're going to…wait?"

"There's really nothing more we can do except be patient," Merlin said calmly, Kilgharrah's condolences and soft words echoing in his mind. He may not particularly like it, but he had come to terms once again with what he must do. "I know that patience might be a—what did you call it?—a _novelty experience_ for you—" he added cheekily.

"Oh ha, ha, Merlin. You know—"

Merlin suddenly froze, having Sensed something completely off. A chill crept up his spine, and the hair on his arms and neck began to stand on end. Every nerve was hyper-aware, and his heart pounded. Arthur continued to pick up the banter, but he took no notice, sweeping his sharp gaze all around the courtyard that they had just entered.

"Merlin? What are you—?"

Suddenly, Merlin's swift eyes saw movement and a flicker of light. Too quick for the eye to follow, Merlin shifted his body, pulled Arthur slightly towards him, and with golden eyes, caught the curved dagger that had been sailing towards Arthur.

His eyes immediately locked onto a retreating form, swaddled in clothes and shadowy materials of dark grey and black.

_It was one of them._

With a curse, Merlin dropped magic suspending the dagger in mid-air, glanced briefly at a horrified, overwhelmed Arthur to ensure he was alright, and began to sprint after the figure. Within a few steps, he heard Arthur recover, shout his name, and, while unsheathing Excalibur, chase after him.

Merlin paid no heed to Arthur, and he forced his legs to _move_. The would-be-assassin had entered the palace, and he was a skilled evader…but no where near as skilled as Merlin. The warlock easily leapt over obstacles that the assassin knocked over—vases, small statues sitting on decorative side tables, and the like—and he followed every sharp and crafty change in direction, which the man was using to try to shake Merlin off his trail, with ease. Merlin, as _fast _as he was, soon gained on him, and once the man was in full sight, he used his magic to trip him.

The man scrambled on his hands and knees, but Merlin was upon him like a wolf on an injured deer. With the help of some magic, he hauled the man to his feet and forced him into a corner.

The glassy-eyed man submitted far too easily and slumped against the wall, completely out of breath.

Eyes blazing, Merlin asked quickly and roughly, "Who are you? Who sent you?"

The glazed eyes seemed unfocused, and they shone with an odd, dull light—like that of a less intelligent animal. There was very little life in those eyes, and they made Merlin shudder.

Those dead eyes did not move from Merlin's as Arthur suddenly appeared behind him, nor did they falter as the man began to giggle uncontrollably.

Arthur stormily marched up to the pair, but before he could so much as arrest the man, the assassin plunged his hand into the folds of his clothing, pulling out a vial of that dark, dusky potion.

"Wait, no!" Merlin shouted, lunging for the vial.

It was too late; the man's lifeless eyes morphed into ones of possessed, warped glee, and he downed it in one, trembling with blissful pleasure and happiness as soon as the wicked, vile mixture hit his lips.

"Godspeed, sorcerer," the man cackled. "You'll need it. King," he said, addressing Arthur in a whisper, "you'd better watch your ass….because he might not be there to watch it for you."

The poison hit him then. Merlin felt the magic moving like a repulsive leech that had slipped _into _the man's bloodstream, sucking as it went, sucking, sucking, sucking… The man started to convulse violently, and the vial he was holding shattered when he lost control of the muscles in his fingers. Merlin leapt back, fighting the urge to vomit as the convulsing had the man foaming at the mouth and moaning.

All he and Arthur could do was watch in wide-eyed horror as the man's skin and clothing shriveled and as the man's body began to fold in on itself, crumbling and blackening as it went….until there was absolutely nothing left but the shattered glass and the eerie echoes of his giggles.

Merlin started to shake, just as he had when witnessing the gruesome suicides of the past three, and pressing his back against the wall nearest him, he slid to the ground and stared thoughtlessly at the pile of glass.

Arthur looked pale, as though he was going to be sick any second, and he swallowed convulsively. "What—" Arthur croaked "—what in the name of heaven and earth was _that_?"

Merlin shook his head vigorously, and he finally stopped shaking after a few, deep breaths.

Arthur stared at his friend with wide eyes. There was fear—fear for _him_ etched deeply in the sky-blue irises. "That…was about the most disturbing thing I have _ever_ seen," he murmured shakily, ungracefully sheathing his sword. "Merlin?"

Merlin looked up at his King, whose eyes frantically searched Merlin's for an explanation, for an answer, for _some _comfort.

There was nothing of the sort for him to give, and Arthur knew it.

"This is not the first you've seen, is it?" his friend asked quietly.

Merlin stood. "And I'm just about as close to learning what they want, who sent them, and what that elixir is than I was in the first place!" He growled in frustration.

"I think it's obvious to see what they wanted, you idiot," Arthur said caustically.

"That dagger would have disabled your sword arm for a few weeks. Bicep wound. They did not mean to kill you," Merlin muttered, beginning to pace.

"Then what?" Arthur asked. "It makes no sense."

"Your guess is as good as mine!" Merlin exclaimed, rambling speedily. "Each of them did this. They infiltrated the city—doing what, I haven't the foggiest clue—and ran from me. The moment I catch them, they commit suicide. No struggle or fight. That dagger throw in the courtyard was the most violent I've seen any of them get. They have no apparent motive or master. No purpose…Just that damn Dark magical poison that neither Gaius _nor _I can even hope to understand. In fact, that's the most I've _ever _gotten out one of them, and that was the first one to talk…"

"And how many have you seen? How many more were you going to see before you decided to _tell _me about it?" Arthur snapped.

"Including this fellow: four...What does that matter, Arthur? I know _nothing_. I was hoping to learnsomething before worrying you with it!"

"I don't like being left in the dark, Merlin! Especially in matters like _this_! How would _you _feel?"

Merlin paused his pacing and gave Arthur a tortured look. "Alright," he said in a placating tone. "I'm sorry. Really. Bad decision on my part. Just understand…and stay calm. We need to think this through with clear heads."

Arthur sighed. "Let's just—"

"Oh, there you are, Arthur!" a man's voice called from the end of the hall. "Merlin! You too? Good."

The two young men started in fear and turned to see an agitated and frightened Sir Lancelot come trotting up to them.

"I was just going to your chambers—" Lancelot began hurriedly in a pant.

"What's happened?" Arthur said seriously.

"Ulfric…he's—he's been found dead in his cell."

Merlin and Arthur exchanged looks of surprise. "The cause?" Arthur asked warily, eyes drifting to the pile of shattered glass in the corner.

"All we found was this." Lancelot opened his palm where a shard of glass sat. "We suspect pois—"

"Is his body still there?" Merlin asked hastily, his heart pounding.

Lancelot gave him a strange look. "Yes. Why wouldn't it be?"

Merlin released a breath. "Not the same," he whispered.

Arthur immediately caught on, and he said worriedly, "Maybe not, but that—that was the second death serious threat you've received in twenty-four hours, Merlin. There…that isn't just coincidence."

"I cannot deny that," Merlin muttered uneasily.

"Arthur, Merlin, what is going on?" Lancelot asked worriedly. "A _second_ death threat?"

"Later, Lancelot," Arthur said absentmindedly. The threesome began to rush to Gaius's chambers. "_Merlin_ has a _lot _of explaining to do."

Merlin's deep cerulean eyes frowned sadly at Arthur. "This is why I didn't tell you; there is nothing I can explain."

~…~

Rumor did her work well. Overnight, news of both Ulfric's death and Arthur and Gwen's engagement spread like wildfire, and the entire castle was subtly shaken and overpoweringly thrilled at the same time. The people, too, uneasily and uncertainly whispered behind their hands of sorcery and treachery while also joyously reminding their neighbors about certain bets made and claiming their prizes. Gwaine had had a _very _eventful morning…and he was quite a bit richer for it.

They were far too happy for their King and future Queen to question how it was that Ulfric managed to sneak a vial of an unknown substance with him when he had been searched by the dungeon guards or how it was possible that said guards—who surprisingly had not been knocked out—did not notice anything amiss. In fact, the incident almost got shoved into the very backs of their minds.

But if they had so questioned, the incident would have immediately been branded as one connected to sorcery. They would not have had a second of doubt.

Only the Lady Ava, who had been informed promptly of her father's death, Arthur, Merlin, a few of the Round Table Knights still awake, and Gaius cared to question on that fateful night, and even after exhausting the possibilities, their efforts turned out to be groundless and fruitless.

The only thing that the men could conclude was that Ulfric's threat and this strange man's threat were too alike for comfort, and seeing as that was the only thing that they could agree upon, Arthur ordered everyone to be on the lookout but do nothing else until after the wedding. They unanimously agreed to keep their thoughts on the matter of that strange man and his possible connection to Ulfric hidden.

Of course, Ulfric's death itself could not possibly be hidden, but on the brighter side, neither could the engagement.

The entirety of Camelot was excited and stressed that morning when Merlin made his way through the castle corridors on the way to see Gwen, who had sent a haughty messenger to the Court Sorcerer chambers to remind the absentminded warlock that she wanted to chat with him. The servants and staff were buzzing with preparation for the engagement feast that evening, and he was grateful that they weren't dwelling on the tragedy.

Once he reached Gwen's chambers, he knocked and waited for a response. Gwen faintly called for him to enter, so he eased open the door.

Gwen was sitting cross-legged on her bed with Aislin. The two women were wearing comfortable leggings and tunics and were laughing. Merlin found himself grinning at the sight of the obvious friendship that had budded between the two, and he wondered why it was that Gwen invited Aislin to her rooms.

"Merlin!" Gwen exclaimed in shock when she saw him.

"Hullo, Gwen, Aislin. Good to see you," he greeted with his easy, lopsided smile.

"Hello, Emrys" Aislin said dazzlingly. She gracefully jumped off the bed and picked up her discarded Druid's cloak. "I'll leave you two to talk, Gwen."

"Of course," Gwen said. "Tell Kynon and Enya I said hello."

Aislin nodded in response and said to the warlock, "Sorry to leave so quickly, Merlin. I trust we'll catch up soon."

Merlin blinked at Aislin in confusion. "You—you used my birth name..."

"Did I?" The young dirty-blonde woman hid a sly smile, and with a wink at an amused Gwen, she was gone.

_Women are so strange, _the warlock thought to himself. With a shake of his head, Merlin recovered from his shock and turned to Gwen. "You looked surprised when I walked in. Expecting someone else?"

"No, no. It's just—you actually… knocked," she said suspiciously.

"You make it sound like it's a capital crime for me to knock," Merlin laughed. "Given all of the other rules and laws I've broken, all of the illegal—erm—_activities_ I've taken part of, that's kind of ironic."

Gwen, who had long since gotten used to Merlin's jokes about his past secret life, gave him a mock-reprimanding look before giggling. "You're ridiculous, Merlin, you know that?"

"That's my job," Merlin said brightly. "But do you know what I find more ironic?" he asked, eyes sparkling with humor. "I seem to recall a certain someone asking me, with a rather scornful, disgusted tone, if I remember correctly: 'who'd want to marry Arthur?'"

Gwen blushed and relented to his teasing. With a smile playing at her lips, she said, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

He laughed giddily, gawkily bounced over to her, and hugged her for all he was worth.

"Congratulations, Gwen," he whispered. He pulled back, and his eyes danced about her face, taking in every inch of the soft love, joy, and—was that gratitude?—he saw in her face. "I'm so happy for you and Arthur. After everything the two of you have gone through together, all the difficulties and hurdles you've had to leap…it's finally come true."

To his intense surprise, Gwen pursed her lips subtly, looking as though she were holding back tears. Indeed, gathering at the corners of her expressive brown eyes, Merlin saw the liquid diamonds.

"Gwen?" he asked softly. "What's wrong?"

She brushed at her tears, and in an attempt to make her smile, he joked seriously, "Have you just realized that you decided to marry a prat?"

Gwen let out a gentle snort, and she shook her head as she brushed at her eyes, avoiding Merlin's kaleidoscopic ones altogether. "No. I'm—I'm so _happy_, Merlin. It's nothing to do with Arthur…well, no, it's everything to do with him."

"Wedding jitters?" Merlin guessed kindly, not exactly sure what she was trying to say.

"Perhaps," the young woman admitted nervously. "No. Make that a definitely. Queen…Merlin, I'm going to be _Queen."_

"That's what typically happens when you marry a King," Merlin pointed out.

She cracked a smile, but immediately, her brow furrowed with intense worry. "Queen," she whispered hoarsely. "Queen of a whole kingdom. It's—it's overwhelming! What if I make a mistake? One mistake on my part could tear Camelot apart. Or what if I embarrass Arthur? What if I unintentionally make enemies of those who should be our friends? Or offend another noble? There're so many things…"

"That's a lot of 'what if's, Gwen," Merlin said seriously, his eyes deepening with wisdom. "If there's one philosophy I have learned to live by…You shouldn't 'what if' life away. You'll end up missing something beautiful in the process."

"But…Merlin—the responsibility…Am I the right one? I don't think I can do this…I wasn't born to be Queen; I'm ignorant to her duties and…Oh, gods!" Trembling, she closed her eyes and began to try to regulate her breathing by taking deep breaths, obviously fighting off a small panic-attack.

"Guinevere," he said. "Listen to me." Her warm brown eyes, swimming with tears, fluttered open, and he gently took both of her shoulders in his hands and held her out in front of him, his wise eyes latched onto hers.

With a lopsided smile—that insolent, cheeky smile which, strangely enough, had been the first thing she noticed about him when watching his intervention of Arthur's bullying all those years ago—he said, "Just be yourself. As cliché as that sounds: do not pretend. By the gods, don't ever pretend to be someone you're not, Gwen, and stay true. Stay true to what _you _believe. You were a Queen before the engagement, before the prospect of a crown and title…even before Arthur fell in love with you, and you are the Queen that Camelot deserves and the one that will lead her fairly and justly."

"…Do you really mean that?"

"I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it. But, know this, Gwen, I'm not alone—I've heard things around. Kilgharrah, Arthur, the Lower townsfolk and castle staff… There is not one person in the Five Kingdoms better suited to be Queen."

Her lip trembled, and a watery smile began to slip onto her face. Suddenly, she threw her arms around her best friend's chest and squeezed him so tightly that he felt as though she was bending his bones.

"Thank you, Merlin. Thank you," she whispered into his chest.

Merlin genuinely thought there was nothing to thank him for, so confusedly, he asked, "For what?"

"_Everything_."

Merlin patted her back and muttered, "Well, that clarifies—"

Gwen ignored his gentle sarcasm and pulling away, said, "Thank you for being here. For listening and for what you've said.

"You've been there for me in ways that no friend ever has before. In fact, I've never been able to call anyone a 'true' friend until I met you. Morgana—" Gwen flinched and Merlin's eyes narrowed at the witch's name "—and I…well, we were friends at times—like at Ealdor or when I helped her get over a nightmare—but at others, it was never more than an awkward, fond mistress-servant bond. It was _nothing_ like you and Arthur have. And, considering how easily she turned," she added darkly, "that was no real friendship.

"When I met you, Merlin, my whole life changed. You're my best friend. The greatest friend any of us can ever wish for. You don't only watch over all of us—me, Arthur, Elyan, the Knights—_physically_…you watch out for us emotionally…

"I can't help thinking that without you, Arthur and I—we wouldn't be."

"I don't think that's true," Merlin said forcibly with a blush. "You were both destined for each other."

"That's because _you _were destined to guide us! Don't you see? We are both the people we are today because of you. He would have never noticed me the way he does now, and I would never have noticed him for the man he's become because of you."

Her eyes drifted to the solitary red rose sitting in a clear vase on her windowsill. Sunlight hit the water, and it reflected back up at the rose in shimmering, shifting beams. The beams, in turn, cast winking rainbows through the glass and onto the curtains and sill, creating a simple, natural stained-glass effect in an eternal cycle of light and color.

"You've been there for me when there was no one," she murmured, turning her eyes back to him. Gratitude and love shone from every pore. "Thank you for being there. And for being here now."

Touched by her words, Merlin said modestly, "I'll always be there, Gwen. That is what friends are for."

She hugged him tightly once again, and they stood silent, just basking in the support and loyal friendship emanating from the other.

"We—we'd be so lost without you," she whispered.

Of course, that is when Arthur, who had obviously and unconsciously picked up on his servant's bad habits, walked into the room after the barest knock.

"Merlin," he drawled, less in jealousy and more in amusement. Gwen and Merlin parted jerkily in surprise, having not realized that he was there. With dancing eyes—eyes that suggested he knew exactly what the two had been talking about—the King seemed to decide to lessen the tense atmosphere and asked mercilessly, "Would you care to explain why you're hugging my fiancé?"

~…~

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Merlin had been busy helping Arthur prepare for the engagement feast as well as helping prepare the feast itself, so it was inevitable that he forgot to prepare _himself _for the dinner.

Cursing in the Old Tongue, Merlin scrambled about his chambers, throwing on the first formal shirt he laid his hands on—it happened to be a dark, sapphire blue, a shade lighter than his cloak—and after washing his face and hands roughly and quickly, he clasped the aforementioned cloak around his shoulders.

He burst out of his chambers to find Leon and Percival waiting for him and looking excruciatingly bored. "I know, I know," he panted before they could so much as open their mouths. "I'm late."

Arthur was not as furious about his tardy Court Sorcerer or his fellow Knights as he thought he would be. No, Arthur merely rolled his eyes and said sarcastically, "Thanks for joining us, Merlin."

The evening passed pleasantly. Gwen was _glowing_ in her pale blue gown, and Merlin could not help feeling pleased at how she had perked up from this morning. In addition, Arthur was in a better mood than he had been all week.

Aislin was present, as she, Merlin learned, was to be Gwen's maid of honor, which made him smile like mad. Iseldir, Kynon, and Enya also had been invited alongside Arthur's trusted Knights, Merlin, Gaius, his council members, as well as some very important, high-standing Lords and their ladies.

If Merlin thought about it too much, it was more than a bit unnerving, so he didn't think about it (this was his second feast as Court Sorcerer, after all). He remembered what he told Gwen earlier and decided it was high time he followed his own advice, relaxed his wariness and concern for others' comfort, and tried something new…an experiment of sorts. _Just be yourself_.

The food and company was good; the drink, judging by the antics of Gwaine (Merlin _refused _to touch any of the strong, rich alcohol), was just as good. With all his worries put aside, Merlin enjoyed the little party, and quite a few people, who had always assumed that the warlock kept to himself and preferred a quieter, secretive life, were surprised that he was hardly as dark and mysterious as they made him out to be. His cheerful openness, sunny smiles, and musical laughs _definitely _made them reconsider their stereotypes and misconceptions.

There was only one little awkward moment in which Merlin, without thinking, casually flicked his hand to rekindle a few candles that had burnt out. Arthur did not so much as flinch or notice the gesture, having gotten so used to Merlin's sporadic usage of magic, but several others started in surprise at his daring to use it in front of so many people. However, once they had gotten over their shock and had seen that their Knights, King, and future Queen thought absolutely _nothing_ of it, the incident led them to shyly and cautiously ask him a few questions about magic and the state of things in Camelot concerning it, which he was only too willing to answer.

By and by, everyone had had their fill, and the celebration ended. Guests left in pairs and small groups steadily until the only ones left in the chamber were Merlin, Gwen, Gaius, Arthur, and Gwaine, who was finishing up the last of the wine.

"That wasn't so bad," Gwen said to the men in relief.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Did you expect it to be?"

Gwen's eyes flitted to Merlin and back, and she said, "I was expecting it to be a lot more…"

"Awkward," Merlin finished in a mumble.

"Gwen, my dear," Gaius said, "Not one of those nobles _cares_ about your birthright…Didn't you see how excited they were about the marriage?"

"No, no. I mean, yes, I was surprised by their reception, but I was more concerned about Merlin, actually."

Arthur shook his head. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think that they were actually _impressed _by you, Merlin."

"They did seem very interested in you, my boy," Gaius said. "Perhaps things are taking a turn for the better. The most important thing, though, was that the Druids were not left out by the nobles, either. Geoffrey, in particular, and, surprisingly enough, Lord _Rupert_ seemed to ask them endless questions."

Merlin had also made these observations earlier, but that did not stop him from asking stupidly, "You think so?"

"Nah, I thought they were just after the food," Gwaine deadpanned. "That's why they were so…civil. That was the best damn meal I've had in awhile, for certain, and since they must have thought similarly, they obviously didn't want to get kicked out by the bloody most-powerful-sorcerer-to-ever-exist or his most royal Highness for picking a fight."

"Thanks for the support, Gwaine," Merlin said wryly while Arthur sent Gwaine an indignant look.

A wicked grin spread across Gwen's face, and she joked, "You know he's just pulling your beard, Merlin." *

Gwaine burst into hysterical giggles, Arthur stifled a snort, and Gaius had to purse his lips to hide his smile. When Merlin's eyes narrowed dangerously, all the others could do was think that the running joke between them was all the more hilarious, and both Arthur and Gaius lost what little control they had.

It _never _ceased to bother Merlin. No beards. Never. Not for him. He _refused_. _Just _because his younger self had a weird interest in beards _once_ and his eighty-year old self, Dragoon, _had _a beard, did not mean _he _was going to grow a beard. Nope, not for him. Beards were about the most _annoying _things on his list…right after arrogant prats and Dragon riddles.

They all thought he was in denial.

And so, the messenger that knocked hesitantly on the frame of the large doors, which were still open from the last of the guests who left, walked in on the unpleasant sight of his fuming, insolent Court Sorcerer, gray-blue eyes flaming, ready to lay a furious tongue-lashing on a drunk Knight, his King, his future Queen, and the respected, elderly, stern Court Physician, who, in the young messenger's perspective, should have been cowering under the fierce look on the warlock's face. Instead, they were _laughing_.

Merlin was first to notice the pale, scared fellow, and he murmured, "You just got very lucky."

Arthur followed Merlin's gaze and gestured the young man in. "Yes?"

The fellow edged in fearfully, and he said, "My Lord…It has been decided. *Lot has been made King."

A wide smile spread across Arthur's face, but then it fell slightly. "Brilliant news," he muttered. "But it comes at the most inopportune time."

One of the first things that Arthur did as Prince Regent while his father was still alive, just days after the Bellum Sanguinis, was send delegates and Knights to secure King Cendred's lands and to help ensure that a proper King was put on the throne of the now deceased Cenred. Arthur had the foresight to hope for a future peace treaty between Camelot and the neighboring kingdom, so it was only fit that he sent his men in before any other kingdom got any stupid ideas…and before things got violent.

Things did get violent, for a time. Cenred's Lords and noblemen battled and brawled viciously for the right to the throne (the idiot King had never decided an heir), but the bloodiness was soon subdued by Camelot's forces.

In the end, two candidates were chosen for King—one native born, and the other a Camelotian, who had inherited his land and title—and they decided to diplomatically and peacefully let the people and nobles decide between the two.

Arthur had placed all of his support on Lot, the native-born, who was far more experienced, cleverer, and a better fit for King for political, social, and economic reasons, and he was steadfast in that decision, knowing that Lot would be an excellent ally and a _far_ more kind and fair King than Cenred had ever been.

It was good news indeed that the more experienced man became King of Cenred's old kingdom, but it was inopportune in that Arthur would be needed to see to the peace treaty. Since it would be common courtesy for him to travel to Lot's kingdom, he would have to leave Camelot…right after he was married and right after Gwen was made Queen.

"Sire?"

"Has King Lot sent men for the official business?"

"Yes, my Lord. They have only just arrived and wish to see you."

"Of course," Arthur said. Merlin saw the subtle 'let's-get-this-over-with' enthusiasm in his eyes. "Send them in."

The messenger nodded once and darted away, and Merlin said, "It's about _time_, don't you think?"

"Could it have killed them to take a bit longer perhaps?" Arthur asked sulkily, giving his wife-to-be an apologetic look. Gwen bit her lip.

_Oh, damn_, Merlin thought sympathetically.

"This is going to be interesting," Arthur muttered.

"How so?" Gaius asked.

Arthur was silent for a moment, and he said seriously, "Well, this'll be Merlin's first diplomatic mission, for one."

Gaius and Merlin, who was slightly panicked (he hadn't even _thought_ about _his_ involvement in this), shared a look. "Gods, help us all," Gaius agreed, much to Gwaine's amusement.

"And Gwen…" His voice filled with regret and longing.

"I will have to remain here." It was not a question; Merlin heard the determination in her voice.

"I'd rather not have you tested so early, but fate is against me, it seems."

"Do you have so little faith in destiny, Arthur?" Merlin mumbled.

Arthur smirked briefly at Merlin's joke and titled Gwen's chin upwards. "You will be fine," he told her sternly, seeing the pinprick of fear in her eyes. "You'll have Gaius and most of the council members there to help you adjust."

"This may turn out to be a good thing. You'll become even more independent," Gaius added sagely. "And you will gain confidence and experience."

Gwen and Merlin met eyes, both of them nonverbally sharing their uneasiness at the tasks that they had ahead of them and both of them encouraging the other.

It was then that the messenger led in a small group of men dressed in traveling cloaks and riding clothes. Immediately, a few members of the group fell back, deferring to the leader of their mission.

Instinctively, Merlin did not like the newcomer. His face was guileless, smooth, and open, and he had a charismatic smile with blinding white teeth and wide-set pale eyes that seemed both immensely warm with humor and slightly cold with cynicism at the same time. He _appeared_ to be a good-natured fellow, bright, happy, and friendly, but what Merlin noticed was the way he held himself. He held himself cockily, with arrogance and condescending pride. Even the smile betrayed his overconfidence…and even his vanity.

He was as Arthur was four to five years ago, and Merlin did not like that. Not one bit.

In the millisecond that he made this first impression, Arthur started and stared in utter shock and strange recognition at Lot's diplomat, and as the man ran his fingers through his short, spiky ginger-blonde hair, the young King began to smile gleefully.

And like glass being shattered, the silence was broken…

"_Kay_?"

* * *

><p>*Referencejoke from my fic "Young Hawk"

*In the series 4 finale, Merlin says that Ealdor lies "in Lot's Kingdom," so I'm assuming that Lot has been made King after Cendred's death. So, that's why he's there...

AN: Oh, yes, I'm bad! :D Don't get too angry with me: in my defense, this's the first real cliffie that this whole fic has had.

Next chapter will include the wedding, as I mentioned previously, as well as Kay's back-story, which has been ever so much fun to think about, because I'm trying to think and twist the legends up (as the show does). :D This chapter may take some time. I'm planning on entering a poetry contest, so I'll be focusing on a new poem before this fic. :)

As always, I'm sorry for the mistakes. :P Hope you've enjoyed. Oz out.


	7. A Pheasant and A Peacock

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: *sheepish grin* So, I think we've established LONG before that I'm a notorious liar. I promised the wedding scene, but alas... Kay was much to fun to write about. ;) I'm so sorry for those of you waiting patiently for the wedding; this became far longer than I anticipated, and I have to push the wedding back to next chapter. :) Forgive me?

I admit, I had such fun thinking up Kay's back-story that I struggled with the actual MEETING. *rolls eyes at self* And banter...for some reason. Banter was just hard coming for me this chapter (I seriously spent days thinking of ONE line for Arthur...Fortunately, my efforts paid off, and I eventually spilled out what I think is quite admirable banter).

I hope you don't mind the rather long background story, and I hope Kay seems a genuinely interesting OC...I'm a little concerned that I didn't portray him as I envisioned him, but I will hope that will rectify itself in a few chapters. :D

Enjoy:

* * *

><p><em>"'Beware of Merlin, then. He can detect such things.'" –A random knight (<span>The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights<span>: John Steinbeck)_

* * *

><p><strong>A Pheasant and A Peacock<strong>

_So this is Sir Kay, _Merlin thought, running another appraising eye over the newcomer. The more Merlin observed him, the more he felt that he had seen Kay's face before, and the nudging of his memory was driving him mad.

Beyond the irritation of not being able to place the vague memory, he was unsure how to feel…He didn't know whether to feel ashamed of his harsh prejudgment or whether to remain firm and trust his first instinct. But the biggest question of them all: should he be disappointed or curious based on the things that he had been told about the young man?

He decided that it was a strange combination of them all.

It had taken a couple of hours, a frustrated Arthur, an exasperated Gaius, and a clever Gwen for Merlin to finally understand Kay's tale. In his defense, the story was rooted on so much political gobbledygook that Merlin, who usually caught on quickly to new knowledge, felt as though his head was being pummeled by hooves of a runaway mule.

He honestly had not cared much about this Kay, seeing as he never met him before and had no intention to, but, because he was a potential King for the neighboring kingdom, Merlin understood the necessity in learning about the man's background and knew that he might one day _have _to meet him. However, that did not necessarily mean that he saw the need for such an _in-depth_ retelling.

Sir Kay's story was complex and quite interesting, and it was the type of story that could not begin until others were told.

Lord Trahaearn, Kay's grandfather, had been a high-standing noble and cousin of King Darryn, who was Cenred's father. Trahaearn was a wicked man—cruel, greedy and corrupted by power—but his most evil offense was alcoholism and the inevitable rages that led to the physical abuse of his wife Lynwen. Her fear of him and fear for her young son Ector made her passive, and his frightening threats toward Ector, her fierce maternal protectiveness, and the prospective ruin of Ector's future dissuaded her from fleeing Trahaearn's lands. However, after nearly a decade of selfless sacrifice, the raging Lord finally managed to work past her steady defense and put his hands on Ector, and she knew that she could no longer protect him.

One night when the Lord was inebriated and sleeping off a horrible hangover, she and Ector snuck away into the night with the help of her maidservant and found refuge at her brother's (he was a Duke of Camelot) town near the edge of Darryn's and Uther's kingdom's border. There, they were protected and hid in peace for another ten years.

Ector, Merlin discovered, was much like Gwaine, in fact, and he grew up with a fierce hatred for power, noblemen, and titles. Unlike Gwaine, however, he refused to touch any form of alcohol. During his time in his uncle's lands, he had become an accomplished swordsman, and when he was twenty years old, he became restless in his uncle's small castle, where he was Captain of the guards, and was sure that his life was meant for some greater purpose. He set out, much like Merlin had from Ealdor, to find that purpose.

How ironic was it that, within a few hours of having set out, Ector saved the young King Uther's life?

Yes, Merlin, convinced that Destiny just _loved_ to mess with people, had had a laugh about that.

Uther had been on a hunt with his men, and the giant boar had separated him from the others and had broken his last spear, leaving him defenseless. Having accidentally tumbled upon the hunting party, Ector, valorous and impulsive, not in the least sure who this victim truly was, dashed in and killed the beast before it could gore Uther.

The young King, grateful beyond words, and his then-fiancé Igraine invited Ector to Camelot (Merlin had been surprised that the paranoid Uther had _ever_ been that trusting of a stranger. Arthur smacked him upside the head, insisting that it was a time of peace and trust, and Merlin conceded to the fact that the late King was most likely a very different man before the Purge).

Without having been knighted, the man soon impressed Uther with his noble morality, bravery, character, and skill with the sword, and for his continuous courage, extraordinary deeds, and growing loyalty and love for the King of Camelot and after the revelation of his noble-blood as well as his complete lack of attachment and his vehement hatred toward King Darryn and his father, he was then named a knight.

Ector had never been happier. He and Uther became nearly inseparable, and he fell in love with one of Igraine's Ladies-in-Waiting*, married, and was gifted with Kay two years before Igraine died in childbirth and the Great Purge began.

Despite this tragedy and the immense changes in Uther, Ector, with their mutual friend and advisor Gorlois, who would be destined to die in a few years, stood by their King always, and despite the upcoming bloodshed, Ector was still glowing with happiness at the prospect of serving his King and raising a family. However, when Kay was the tender age of five, Sir Ector received word that Lord Trahaearn had died in a pool of his own vomit. The castle of his father was his by right (this is where Merlin got horribly lost amongst the political implications of the neighboring kingdom's customs).

Uther, Gorlois, and Ector saw it as an opportunity to place a spy at the heart of the kingdom. Since King Darryn had been struck by a disease that attacked his memory, judgment, and movement, and since the customs of that land made it so that all had an innate respect and complete trust in nobility (this fact had made Merlin cringe and shake his head), no matter how absent a noble had been previously, it was the _perfect_ time to slip into the inner circle of the opposing King without suspicion. Even if he did raise suspicion, he could easily pretend to be a spy _against _Camelot and feed false stories.

They could not pass such an opportunity.

So, with a slightly heavy heart, Ector decided to follow the King's wishes, take full advantage of the chance, and leave his family behind, knowing that they would be safe and well way from the wild violence of Darryn's lands.

Just as Ector settled in to his disturbing childhood home, the disease took Darryn's life, leaving Cenred, a boy of twelve years of age, the only heir to the throne. And yes, Cenred was indeed crowned at twelve years old. This made things all the easier for Ector, who slid into the boy's advising circle, which was the main ruling power until Cenred was sixteen (the year he "came of age" according to that kingdom's traditions—another fact that had Merlin flinching with horror), without much of a problem. Thus, for years, Ector fed Uther information about Cenred's court, plans, and details of his movements as Cenred himself grew crueler, more vicious, and more merciless as time went by.

Meanwhile in Camelot, Kay grew up to be a natural swordsman. Alongside Leon, who had the experience and logic, Sir Kay, who had the raw talent and impulsiveness, became the Prince's right-hand man.

It was five years now—actually, it was quite literally just _days_ after Merlin had moved into Gaius's chambers—that Kay had left Camelot to take up his deceased father's place (he honorably continued to fight despite an arrow wound, and by the time the village he had been protecting had been saved from the raiders, he had lost too much blood) in Cenred's kingdom as a Lord. Again, it was his right by birth.

Despite Cenred's complete trust in his dead father, Kay had little luck gaining the favor of Cenred until he managed to capture a man that had caused Cenred much grief in the past years, and it was then that Cenred began to pay more attention to Kay and his fighting skills, though he was still suspicious of Kay for having grown up in Camelot (it was conveniently kept secret that Kay was a knight of Camelot). Steadily, Kay was given more power in his court, and being his father's son, he gained quite a few of his characteristics. It was inevitable that the people began to adore him, another reason that made Cenred, despite suspicions, keep him in court.

Kay, however, would not stand with Cenred when he learnt of his secret dealings with Morgause (he knew nothing of Morgana's treachery at the time), and his rebellion angered Cenred beyond repair. He had to flee before he was put to death for treason, but not before wiping out a few of Cenred's greatest military commanders, of course. In a way, this unfortunate incident of losing the King's trust was an immensely _good _thing; it had saved him from being enslaved by the Cup of Life during the Bellum Sanguinis, after all.

And so, Cenred was killed, Merlin destroyed Morgause and her army of immortals, Morgana fled, Arthur sent men to secure the lands from riot, et cetera, et cetera.

Once Kay returned to his rightful place, he was popular in the eyes of Camelot as well as his native-lands for the valiant moral decision to abandon his duty and instead stand up for what was right, and having been one of Arthur's most trusted knights, it was expected that Arthur would choose to support him as King.

However, Lord Lot, who had had a Camelotian mother, had true loyalties to Camelot as well as to his kingdom. He had balanced supplying Camelot with information and supplies with secretly going against Cenred's wishes and helping the struggling, poor, starving people wherever and whenever he could. Besides that, as Merlin had thought earlier, he was older, more experienced, more diplomatic and analytical, and native-born, and these were the reasons that Arthur, against expectations, supported Lot over Kay.

Merlin was not surprised that Lot won, but he _was _surprised that this man, who had the air of a pompous noble and the clear face of an innocent, angelic boy, was spoken of so highly by Arthur and several other members of the court.

He was even more surprised when, after Kay gave a crooked smile, Arthur barked a short, friendly laugh, closed the distance between them with a sharp stride, and gave the ex-knight a manly embrace of sorts in which they clasped forearms and quickly hugged each other with their free arm before withdrawing just as quickly.

_Who is this man? _Merlin thought incredulously. He just got a _hug_. From Arthur.

There was some disconnect, some strange barrier that Merlin could not break through. Kay was obviously far closer to Arthur than Merlin had ever guessed, and then there was his story… It seemed as though the story did not fit whatsoever to the man, and the man did not fit whatsoever to the story. So, Merlin was, more or less, confused.

Well, he was going to rectify his confusion.

Since Merlin had gotten his new _aura_-reading powers, he realized how unethical it was to read someone's entire being—their secrets, worries, dreams, loves, and hatreds—and he reserved the full effect of his ability for enemies and suspicious, dangerous circumstances. For people he deemed as potential friends, acquaintances, and allies, he only opened his _aura_-eyes enough to get the smallest glimpse, to catch the flavor and taste of their personality, just to further solidify his first impressions, possibly dispel any previous rumors or misunderstandings, and prepare himself for the type of person they were.

*It was a closely guarded secret—his _aura_ magic; only Arthur, Gaius, Kilgharrah, and his mother knew about it. It was a gift that many of Arthur's enemies would salivate over, and the King and Court Sorcerer agreed subconsciously that the less people who knew about it, the better. He used it so often (it had become instinctual) and so openly that he wondered how no one had guessed or wondered, but he supposed that his friends simply shrugged off his slip-ups of random intuition, having known that their warlock had always had a gift for reading people, even before the introduction of this new power.

Curiously, Merlin called upon his _aura_-magic and saw…

_Nothing_—not a hint of color, not one flicker of personality.

Feeling a tug against his mind, Merlin's eyes were immediately drawn to Kay's neck, from which hung a twisted amulet of rowan and oak, two trees whose wood had protective properties under the influence of magic. Merlin knew immediately what it was for: the way the flexible sprigs were bound together suggested that it protected the wearer from what the *Gypsies, a group of nomadic magical people far, far to the southeast, called "Eyes."

He inhaled sharply in surprise. _Why the hell….?_

His eyes flickered upward to accidentally meet Kay's curious gaze, which immediately shifted from Merlin's.

The newcomer had been staring at him.

A chill of unease slithered down his spine. Merlin had the feeling he knew, without having been introduced, _exactly_ who and what he was.

_Well, I should be grateful_, Merlin thought bitterly. As briefly as their eyes had met, Merlin had not detected any obvious hatred or disdain in the visitor's countenance, but that did not comfort him. He didn't like being stared at—whether out of fear, awe, loathing, admiration, curiosity…whatever. It didn't matter. He'd had enough of it.

"I trust that some servants had set up rooms for you," Arthur was telling Kay's men. When they nodded in assent, he continued politely, "Your journey must have been tiring and long, and it is rather late. We will make proper introductions and speak of Lot's coronation and the peace treaty tomorrow afternoon. I will send messengers tomorrow morning. Guards!" he called. Two entered, and he ordered, "Help these men find their way to their chambers, please."

The weary visitors bowed gratefully, and the guards escorted them out.

Once they were gone, Kay said in a pleasant, deep voice, "Long time, no see, Pendragon." An amicable grin spread across his face. "Or should I say: m'Lord?" He bowed almost mockingly, his grin widening and his wide-set eyes brightening.

Arthur brushed off the title and the teasing. "Kay, you know that there's no need for that."

The elder young man cocked his head to the smallest degree, a brief flash of confusion and then satisfaction traveling through his eyes. He clapped Arthur on the back, a motion that all men were fond of when they found themselves unable to express their emotions. "It's great to see you again, Arthur."

"And you!" Arthur exclaimed. "I did not expect _you _to be coming, and I'm grateful. Camelot has missed you."

"I would certainly hope so. After all that I've risked for her," Kay mocked assertively.

Merlin rolled his eyes, his perception of the man's character taking a baby step backward. His vanity, though seemingly fake and joking, was not helping his case.

Gaius shuffled in place and raised his eyebrow at Kay, and the movement caught Kay's attention.

His pale eyes lit up, and he cried, "Gaius! How have you been, old friend?"

Gaius' genuine smile surprised Merlin, and he saw a fond tenderness in his eyes…the same tenderness he had in his eyes when Merlin, Arthur, or Gwen came home after being absent from Camelot for a long period of time or after returning from a dangerous mission.

If _Gaius, _who was just as good, if not better, at reading people than Merlin, was pleased to see the young man…

_Perhaps—Perhaps I was too quick to judge_, Merlin thought sheepishly as his mentor shook Kay's hand enthusiastically.

"I've been well, thank you. I haven't been better in years, in fact." Gwen sent Merlin a knowing look, and he hid his flush and smile. "And yourself?"

"Physically?" he asked rhetorically, chuckling. "I'm fighting fit—no lasting damage from the little incident I found myself in a few months ago—but I cannot deny that I'm disappointed at this turnout," the man admitted truthfully, shocking Merlin with his honesty. There was no hint of the smug arrogance that Merlin had assumed he had in this confession.

"But, Lot was the better man, and I shouldn't complain. Since Lot and I have worked together in the past and worked together _well_, and since we have similar hopes for the kingdoms' future—that fool Cenred left it in ruins; there's so much work to be done—I have been asked to be one of his Royal Advisors—" there were murmurs of congratulations from the small group, which he took with a wide smile "—and then there's the simple fact that I am home," he continued with relief, the happiness in his voice prevalent. "How could I not be well? Though, I've heard that our Camelot has had quite some hectic times since I've left."

Arthur chuckled, eyes flickering to Merlin, and said, "You could say that." He unconsciously took Gwen's hand and gave it a squeeze.

Kay's eyes followed the King's, his indolent, clear blue eyes only briefly settling on Merlin (and by brief, he meant _brief_—so brief that Merlin suspected the elder man was purposefully avoiding eye contact at all costs) before returning to address the woman at his side.

"Guinevere, isn't it?" he said in a mock-shocked tone.

"Gwen," she corrected with a smile and a small courtesy, "You may call me Gwen, Sir—Lord Kay." She blushed slightly at her mistake. "It's nice to see you safely at home again."

Kay laughed. "I hardly recognized you! Once a maidservant and now Queen-to-be!" Gwen flushed, and the young man kissed her hand respectfully and said, "I only just stepped foot in the city, and I've heard the most wonderful things about you. Camelot is lucky."

The tone was genuine, and it was not just mere flattery; he was delighted to see her again, Merlin saw, and he was happy for Arthur for having found someone he could name as his Queen and wife. That much was true. But, there was also the vaguest hint of disapproval shifting in his eyes. It wasn't _contemptuous _disapproval, but it was the stereotypical disapproval, the type of disapproval that stemmed from ingrained social prejudices that one could hardly remove or dispose of.

Typical noble.

"When is the wedding-day?" Kay asked Gwen kindly.

Gwen hardly flinched at the question. "That is something we must leave to discuss tomorrow," she answered with diplomatic grace.

Interest in her indirect answer flashed quickly through his eyes, but unwilling to pry, it seemed, Kay easily dropped the subject and shrugged carelessly.

"Barely a half hour have I been back, and I've seen how things have certainly changed here in Camelot," Kay said cheerfully. "And are continuing to change."

Gwaine, who could not sit still for much longer, snorted sarcastically and said roughly, "No kidding."

Kay, having not even noticed the dark Knight leaning against a feast table, jumped, and once he took in Gwaine's countenance, his brow scrunched thoughtfully.

Arthur let out a little groan and said, "You were so quiet, Gwaine, I had forgotten you were still here." Kay's brow smoothed over at the name, and he looked the Knight over with a calculated interest.

Gwaine scowled at Arthur, staggered up from his seat, and introduced himself to Kay, and the fair-haired knight mused, "You know, I believe we've met before."

"Really now?" Gwaine asked indifferently.

"At a tavern in Cenred's lands. If I remember correctly, you started quite a fight."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Gods, Gwaine! If I hear about _another_ one of your brawls, I swear I'll—"

Gwaine, of course, ignored him, and interrupted gleefully, "I remember!" He laughed. "Now, _that_ was a drinking contest! You and I got the entire tavern to participate—brilliant, that." He sighed wistfully and added smugly, "I _destroyed _you and your men."

"Destroyed?" Kay scoffed, and a challenging smirk appeared on his lips. "_Hardly_!"

The rebellious Knight immediately jumped on the chance, a wicked light gleaming in his eye. "I'll be happy for a rematch," he said. "_You, _at least, were a worthy opponent. My mates here can hardly hold their own."

As Kay's smirk deepened, Gwaine's foolish grin widened, and the visitor said boldly, "I accept your challenge."

Merlin couldn't help but be immensely amused at the exchange, but Gwen did not share his mood. She had that look of motherly discontent, a look Merlin was becoming far too familiar with.

In mock horror, Arthur moaned, "Oh, Gwaine. What have you done?"

"I've honorably challenged a fellow knight to a friendly contest of strength and will," Gwaine said in an innocent tone. "He accepted just as honorably." He paused thoughtfully and asked Kay, "Forgive me; I'm still rather _new_ to Camelot, if you will, and that is how things are done by the Knight's Code, is it not?"

Kay, who was grinning with amusement, rejoined with a forced sobriety, "That it is, Sir Gwaine."

"Did I miss anything?"

The visitor made a show of pretending to be in deep thought. "Not that I'm aware of."

"Then I don't see the problem, _Sire_. I _did _challenge him like a gentleman, after all."

_That _was too much for Merlin. The warlock burst into laughter at the ridiculousness of the conversation and at the mere thought of _Gwaine _as a 'gentleman.'

At the sound of his laughter, Kay turned to face Merlin, and the Court Sorcerer finally found himself staring eye to eye with Kay, who had that challenging smirk still lingering on his mouth…

The two men eyed each other for only a few seconds, but those few seconds felt like an eternity as Merlin, still trying to figure out whether or not he liked or disliked the man, contemplated Kay and as Kay, whose honest eyes contained a mixture of surprise, sheepishness, curiosity, and a pinch of that smirking bully, studied him.

That smirking bully…With a shock, Merlin remembered exactly where and when he first saw Kay.

"_Oh, thank God. I thought you were deaf as well as dumb," Arthur had sneered mockingly. _

_Before turning, Merlin lips twitched upward. A small part of him had hoped that the cocky bully would just ignore him, but another part, a part he did not understand, had hoped that he wouldn't. Perhaps it had been just for the pleasure of beating the prat in a battle of wit and for the satisfaction he would gain by puncturing said prat's inflated head that he had _wanted_ Arthur to stop him. _

"_Look, I've told you you're an ass," he wisecracked, completely forgetting Gaius' warning not to call attention to himself. "I just didn't realize you were a royal one." Noticing a few jeering men standing behind Arthur, whose smirks and stances of arrogance matched the Prince's, he taunted insolently, "Oh, what are you going to do? You've got your Daddy's men to protect you?_

Oh, was this going to be interesting.

With an impish grin creeping onto his face, Merlin gawkily approached Kay, and before Arthur, who appeared uneasy at the looks his ex-knight and Court Sorcerer were exchanging and who suspected exactly what his friend was planning (thereby resulting in a narrow-eyed, admonitory look that blatantly said, _Don't you DARE, Merlin, _which Merlin, of course, grinningly ignored), could introduce him, he introduced himself, "Hello, I'm Merlin."

"Merlin," Kay repeated graciously. "You're—"

"The peasant-idiot who still hasn't learned to walk on his knees," Merlin quipped happily, making Kay's eyes widen comically (he obviously had not expected Merlin to recognize him). "And _you_ were one of the pheasants glorifying in the display of a peacock's feathers. I just wanted to introduce myself properly this time because for some reason, we didn't seem to hit off so well the _first_ time, did we?"

Gwaine started to snicker, and Gwen covered her mouth to hide her smile. However, Kay looked stunned and somewhat stuck between amusement and horror at Merlin's serious tone conjoined with the playful joke and uncouth insult.

Arthur, on the other hand, just blinked and asked slowly, "Merlin?"

"Yes, Arthur," Merlin answered with a diabolical innocence.

Arthur's narrowed, blue eyes bored into him. "Did you just call our guest a _pheasant?_"

"Metaphorically," Merlin clarified, completely at ease despite the spitting fire in his master's eyes.

"And would you care to explain your use of '_peacock_?'"

Gwen started shaking with the force of contained laughter, and Kay, still unsure how to react and how to judge Merlin and Arthur's calm exteriors and the alternating sarcasm and teasing, watched the pair of them curiously, cautiously, and amazedly.

Cocking an eyebrow, Merlin asked in false confusion, "Would you _rather_ have me call you an ass?"

Poor Gwen had to choke back her giggles, and though Gaius' raised eyebrow might have suggested disapproval, Merlin could see he appreciated his nephew's clever pun.

"I'd _rather_ you learn to shut up, _Mer_lin."

"I'd rather you learn to find a sense of humor, _Sire_."

Arthur snorted. "Humor? You think you're _funny, Mer_lin_? _Calling me a '_peacock_' or an—" Merlin's grin widened impishly, and Arthur sidestepped and avoided the word. "—is supposed to make me laugh?" Arthur asked sarcastically.

"Maybe not, but perhaps it might have occurred to you that it was rather witty."

"I—!"

"Stay out of this, Gwaine."

"I didn't even fin—"

"_Gwaine!_"

Merlin sniggered at Gwaine's pout. "I suppose I should be pleased," he continued to tease, "that you weren't thickheaded enough to think that calling you a peacock—with all their pretty plumage—was a _compliment_."

"One of these days," Arthur said menacingly, "your so-called _wit_ is going to land you into a world of trouble."

"It's already sentenced me to five miserable years of mucking out your horses and quite a bit of time in the stocks," Merlin scoffed jokingly. "What more can it do?"

"Is it always this way between you two?" Kay interrupted in shock. This caused Arthur's blazing eyes to cool, waver, and falter. "After all this time?"

"If it wasn't, he'd be more of an ass—or more of a strutting peacock—than he was before," Merlin said, grinning as Arthur shot a glare at him. "Someone's got to keep that head from growing larger."

"I really regret hiring that extra stable-hand now," Arthur muttered viciously.

Kay suddenly began to laugh. He had a musical, booming laugh that trembled in the air like the beat of a drum, and his eyes danced with a strange humor.

"And _you_'re the famed Merlin Emrys? The Court Sorcerer?" he asked between the hysterical breaths.

Arthur immediately sobered, and again, he looked anxious. He did not know how Kay would feel about magic's newfound freedom in Camelot, and he met Merlin's slate eyes with a look of steadfast support and protectiveness.

"Sorry," Kay apologized immediately and worriedly. "I didn't mean that rudely or nastily—it's just so…_"_

"Ironic?" Merlin suggested with a goofy smile, showing that he was not in the least offended by Kay's tactless question. "I'm probably the last person that you would assume to have magic. And, after witnessing how Arthur and I met, I'm the last person you'd expect standing at Arthur's side."

Kay chuckled, "You haven't changed at _all_, have you?"

"Sometimes I wonder why I still put up with him," Arthur grumbled to Kay.

"After all the stories I've heard, it's a wonder that _he _still puts up with _you_," Kay exclaimed.

"Whose side are you on?" Arthur scowled.

"Again, from what I heard: like _hell _I'm getting on his bad side," Kay teased playfully.

Officially, Merlin decided that the man had passed his test, and he laughed.

Kay smiled sheepishly, "Though, I'm not entirely sure if I'm already there."

"That was the whole purpose of properly reintroducing myself," Merlin said with a grin. "Fresh start."

"You call that proper?" Arthur muttered.

"It probably wasn't _too_ prudent for me to call him a pheasant, I admit."

"Then we're even," Kay said with a laugh, his childish, crystal-like eyes glowing. "It is nice to _properly_ meet you, Merlin."

Merlin and Kay grasped arms, a strange bond of—not exactly friendship—but camaraderie, forming then and there. Arthur sighed in relief, and Merlin suspected that the King had been afraid that the Court Sorcerer and ex-knight wouldn't get along.

Yes, he had had very good reason to worry that they wouldn't.

"And let me just say," Kay continued, charismatic eyes switching from Merlin to Arthur, "to both of you: It was a brave thing—what you two did, and though I was initially shocked at the news—magic returning to Camelot, who would have thought?—and to learn that there was a sorcerer hidden in Camelot, _helping_ us…" he shook his head and crossed his arms. "You're the bravest of us all. I believe that you're doing the right thing, and I'm proud that I can call this kingdom my home."

~…~

Merlin had scampered off with Gaius, who was growing tired, and Gwen soon afterwards, and he excused himself with the insistence that he still had to do some chores for Arthur. Arthur knew that Merlin completed his chores and was grateful that he did not mention that he was, in fact, going to help Gwen with some wedding preparations. He did not want to burden Kay with the knowledge of how inopportune this visit was until he officially began to talk with Kay, Lot's other men, and his own council the next day when they were all there to discuss the problems.

Those three left willingly, but Arthur had almost literally to throw Gwaine out by the scruff of the neck and order him to get some sleep. Gwaine might have forgotten that he had early morning patrol; Arthur, on the other hand, had not.

"_Chores_?" Kay asked incredulously.

Arthur shrugged. "He asked to retain some of his manservant duties after being named Court Sorcerer."

Kay's eyes widened. "Why—why would he?"

Arthur pursed his lips and thought for a moment. _Would anything really change anyway, Arthur_? Merlin's words echoed in his mind.

"You know, I could try to explain, but I honestly don't think I'd be able to."

Kay looked as though he wanted to continue to pester Arthur for a more complete answer, but then he chuckled, "He's an interesting fellow."

Arthur observed his old friend. He hadn't changed much, but he had certainly matured. He was less arrogant, more decisive, and less temperamental. If Merlin had spoken that way to him five years ago, for example, Merlin would have had a sword at his neck and would have been humiliated mercilessly until he gave a meaningful apology, which, in Merlin's case, would have taken an eternity.

He treated Arthur differently too, and the King hid a wry smile at Merlin's crafty test. Yes, he knew that Merlin would test Kay—and he was relieved that Kay, after being subjected to Merlin's bizarre grading scale, had passed.

He didn't know why it mattered so much to him because he had absolutely nothing to prove to Kay, despite their history.

Back before Arthur knew Merlin, Kay was the closest thing that he had to a friend. In fact, Arthur had gone so far as to think that Kay was his best friend. Now, he realized what they had had not been true friendship…well, not the friendship that Arthur craved the most.

Kay, following him without question, submitting to his every whim and fancy, admiring and adoring his every movement (Merlin's metaphor, he grudgingly confessed, was too true), suggesting new ways to tease servants…

Yes, he had matured. But then again, so had Arthur.

But their growth and maturity wasn't what was dividing them. There was something vastly different between them, and though Arthur barely felt it, it was still significant. He shrugged off the notion, blaming the inevitable awkwardness that two people might feel after having not seen each other in half a decade. He was convinced it would pass the more time he spent with his ex-knight.

Arthur laughed. "He may behave like an idiot, but don't let that fool you. He has spurts of bizarre wisdom, and his loyalty is without equal."

"Oh, I don't doubt it," Kay agreed. "He'd have to have some brains and extreme loyalty (or perhaps a death wish) to keep hidden _here_ of all places. I'm amazed at what you and he have accomplished together."

"Thank you, Kay. It means more than you know. I was afraid—" Arthur swallowed. "I thought you hated magic just as much as I did. If not more."

"I never had a reason _not _to hate it," Kay said eagerly. "Now, I'm just immensely curious about it all. Was he really born _with _magic?"

"Yes."

"Just how _powerful _is he?"

"I've seen him do some incredibly powerful magic," Arthur said, his fingers unconsciously playing at the band on the chain around his neck. "And I've heard about him doing things that a normal sorcerer can't do. But, I honestly don't know. I suspect that I haven't seen him do _half _as much as he is really able to do, but he'd never admit it. He's too damn modest."

"Since when have you become the expert?" Kay teased, his eyes curious.

Arthur blushed. "He's been teaching me—well, all of us—about magic. Sometimes, I ask him specifically, but other times, it's inadvertently."

"What does he teach you?"

"A whole manner of things," he answered vaguely. "I'm sure that you'll see." Grinning mischievously, Arthur added, "Wait until he gives you a vocabulary lesson. I've gotten a whole arsenal of insults in the Old Tongue…"

Enthusiastic, Kay laughed, and the two fell into a comfortable silence. On a nonverbal consensus, the King and visitor began to walk together to their chambers. Kay seemed to be drinking in the atmosphere of the castle, the home he had not seen in five years, and Arthur respectively let him have the time to do so.

"I was going to speak to Merlin and you alone about this later," Kay began suddenly, "but I think you should warn you now. Lot does not share my open views on magic."

Arthur was not perturbed by this; he and Merlin had known Lot had _very _little tolerance for magic (he was an Uther-enthusiast to the core) and had taken it into account when reviewing the two candidates for King. "I'm sure it's nothing we can't handle. After all that we've gone through here, and all that we've done to combat it, I don't think anything can surprise us now.

"I'm just pleased that _you_ were so open-minded, especially—" Arthur faltered guiltily "—after what happened with Godwin, I thought your opinion might have hardened your heart forever. I know how close you were to him," he said gently.

Kay's pale eyes grew as hard as crystal, and his face turned stony with anger and sad disappointment. Arthur instantly regretted bringing it up.

"I don't blame magic for what happened to him. My godfather," Kay said stiffly and grimly, "made his decisions. He made the wrong ones, and he paid the price."

* * *

><p>Notes in order: *Sorry if this is incorrect. I don't know if there were Ladies-in-Waiting in this time period.<p>

*If there is any indication in my other fics that suggests that the other characters (Gwen and the Knights) do know about Merlin's aura magic, let me know, please, and I will have to fix something in the other fics.

*This comment on Gypsies has no historical value or any genuine connection to the real people. I did not research, and for the sake of adding something a little different to the fic, instead of using the Druids, I created another magical group and decided to take the name. I hope that I have not offended anyone; if I have, it was completely unintentional, and I apologize.

AN: Odd ending... :s

I hope you've enjoyed. :) Nothing really exciting happens, I know, but I hope that I at least wrote Kay well and got some giggles out of you. ;) As always, I apologize for mistakes.

Oz out.


	8. Something to Treasure

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: *places head in crook of arms* I don't think I've ever been more disappointed with a chapter I've posted. I feel that for all 17 pages of this chapter, I feel as though _nothing_ really happens. Yes, the wedding's there, but it probably is not what you wanted or expected. I'm not happy with the Kilgharrah-people interaction at all. There's Gwen-Elyan, Merlin-Kay, and Kay-Arthur (flashback) bonding, but it's not that much or anything to be really excited about. There's little banter and humor. All in all, a DULL chapter. I admit, I was rather bored writing this chapter, so I expect you not to find it too exciting either. But, never fear! The journey to Lot's kingdom begins next chapter, and there is gonna be at least some action.

I apologize for the length, but I wasn't postponing the wedding again. I need to get moving to the good parts. :)

* * *

><p><strong>Something to Treasure<strong>

"Three _days_?"

The council members and visiting diplomats were sitting either red-faced with exertion (Merlin could not recall ever seeing the lot of them brainstorming with such a frenzied intensity) or white-faced with surprise and some dread, but Kay caught Merlin's eyes and rolled his own at the man who had made the shrill exclamation.

Kay may have been completely calm, but Gwen was not. Her dark skin paled, and she had to put her trembling fingers under the table and onto her lap to prevent anyone from noticing them. Merlin, understanding that even after their talk, Gwen was getting increasingly nervous and looked almost sick every time she began to think too much about the future in which she would be Queen, smiled reassuringly at her.

"Three days," Arthur affirmed, looking only fractionally dazed at the thought. "That's only thanks to Merlin for the progress he made last night with preparations. It was supposed to be six days from now."

"You're welcome," Merlin said cheerily.

Once the King gave his Court Sorcerer a suitable glare (he knew he deserved it; he had grown bored during the two-hour-long discussion of the treaty, most of which he had heard already, and had used magic to randomly blow puffs of air at Arthur's ears and head, imitating a bothersome bug), he turned to Kay and said, "I would apologize, but it would be rather insincere. I cannot and will not postpone the wedding, and Lot cannot and will not wait a few weeks for _me_. In a way, I _am_ sorry to have to miss Lot's coronation. It would have been a respectful and powerful way of displaying my desire for peace between us. He will understand?"

"I don't think there will be much of a problem," Kay answered. "We'll just have to send a messenger ahead to announce that you will not be attending; he is an understanding man, for the most part—" Merlin sighed as the ex-knight's eyes flickered suggestively to him with a look of resigned guilt and sympathy "—and he will not see it as an insult once he knows that you are crowning your Queen."

"I'm glad that we avoided one argument, then. When did he expect us?"

"Lot was hoping to be crowned seven—wait… Yes, that's right—seven days from now. He wanted us to stay in Camelot for three days, ride back with you, and arrive at the palace about a day or two before the coronation. The peace talks would begin three days afterward."

Counting days in his head, Arthur nodded absently and added, "Since we're forgoing the coronation, that means we must leave for Lot's kingdom, at the most, in six days if we wish to make it to his palace a day before the negotiations begin."

"Seven," Merlin corrected. "Seven at most."

Instead of scowling, Arthur laughed darkly. "Knowing us and our luck, it may take more than two days to complete the journey."

Merlin was going to argue, but then he stopped and, with a small smirk, acquiesced, "Too true."

"Since we have long since discussed this treaty in this room," Arthur continued, "and have exhausted all arguments and possible compromises, I do not believe I will need more than a handful of advisors with me."

"Agreed," the group mumbled.

Following the traditional formula for a formal retinue and falling into Arthur's plan without complaint, Lord Rupert offered, "However, my Lord, you will need a party of at least a dozen soldiers, a half-dozen knights, and a servant or two… and—"

Arthur frowned and interrupted tactlessly, "_That _many?"

Poor Rupert blinked rapidly in confusion and appeared dumbstruck for a moment before he said slowly, "If Your Highness wishes to bring more—"

The King's eyes widened for a moment in a form of panic, and then he chuckled. "No, no! You misinterpret me, Rupert. I was thinking more along the lines of…_less_."

Mutters and other such expressions of disapproval sounded throughout the room.

Arthur began to defend himself. "Do I particularly _need_ that large of a party to accompany me? Will they be of any use to the negotiations?"

There was silence, and Arthur folded his arms and leaned back. "My point exactly. Large retinues are for show and show alone, and there _is _no purpose. It may hardly make a difference, but I'd rather have my men at home, where I believe they will be of more use."

Merlin snorted, and Arthur scowled at him as the rest of the court soaked in what he had to say.

"How many do you wish to be in your party, Sire?" Lord George asked, submitting to Arthur's intelligent reasoning over the unspoken rules of propriety.

"I will take Merlin," Arthur answered immediately, "and three of my advising Knights: Gwaine, Percival, and Lancelot."

Gwaine's nose wrinkled at the prospect—he obviously did not fancy the idea of partaking in long peace talks and the two-day journey to Lot's kingdom, and he didn't necessarily like that he was going to be stuck there for an unknown amount of time—but Lancelot and Percival looked pleased with their assignment while Merlin himself wondered if the other councilors would protest to Arthur's decision, seeing as the four that he had chosen were not exactly the most perfect group of people to bring on a diplomatic mission without a fully experienced member to compensate for their complete _lack _of experience.

Ignoring the frowns around the table, Arthur murmured, "Leon and Elyan…"

The two Knights raised inquisitive eyes to their King, who held their eyes, and they immediately understood. The pair of them smiled in reassurance, not in the least resentful that they were to stay in Camelot while their King rode to Lot's kingdom without them.

Arthur could not have chosen better: Elyan and Leon were the most logical choices to stay with Gwen. Elyan was, of course, her brother, and would give her all the support (and protection) she needed and wanted. While Leon would also provide support and protection, he, like Gaius, had the experience to guide and advise Gwen well, and because of the high reputation he already had in the eyes of the noble councilors, who respected him nearly as much as they did their King and Gaius, he could easily back her up on whatever decisions she may or may not make.

"_Four_, Sire?" Lord Rupert exclaimed. "Surely, you do not wish for more men—"

"For what? Protection? Diplomatic advice?" Arthur scoffed. "No. I already have a small army in my company in addition to Kay and his men, and they are all qualified for this mission. There is no need for such—"

"Pomp?" Merlin suggested innocently.

"Is it not a sign of cockiness," one of Kay's men began snootily, "For a King parade around with so few men?"

"I think it's the opposite," Kay disagreed boldly. "In this case, it's a sign of modesty and trust."

"Who would've known?" Merlin mused. "Arthur _can _be modest!"

The warlock was rewarded with a little laughter and Arthur's surly "Shut up, Merlin."

"And Lady Guinevere?" Geoffrey asked suddenly. "Will she travel with you to partake in the negotiations?"

"Guinevere will remain behind to preside over the council," Arthur said, smiling at his wife-to-be.

Suddenly, Lord Ulfius, looking as though he had wakened to a pail of cold water being spilt over his head, started violently. "My Lord, you must reconsider postponing your wedding!" he exclaimed.

"And why should I?" Arthur demanded in a frighteningly quiet voice.

Now flustered and flushing at the impertinence of his own outburst, Ulfius floundered for words, and Lukas, taking pity on the poor man, or perhaps desiring to haughtily point out what each of them were thinking (and unafraid to do it), said, "Surely it is not wise to leave the new Queen in charge of Camelot alone."

Gwen met the councilors' stares steadily, any trace of her previous uneasiness gone and under control. "But I will not be alone. I will have all but five of the council to guide me."

The polite authority in her tone had the Lords backtracking, and a satisfactory gleam suddenly came into their eyes as they realized what Arthur was doing. He was giving their new Queen a chance to prove herself, gain confidence in her own power, and learn the her new duties without him, forcing her to develop into a Queen that would not be dependant upon her King.

They were impressed, to say the least, and Merlin was suddenly struck by how the group had changed. Whereas a month ago they were suspicious and cautious about Arthur's less-than-orthodox decisions and were continuously testing and vigilantly watching him, they have now developed an understanding and genuine trust and respect for the ideals of their new King. Not only have they begun to work together on all levels—including that of more controversial topics—they have begun to understand Arthur's process of thinking and have even begun to think _like _him.

Sure, they all still had their squabbles (traditional values and ingrained prejudices made it incredibly hard to see eye-to-eye in many cases), but they now knew what he was trying to do, what he was trying to prove, what type of King he wanted to be for Camelot, and where he wanted Camelot herself to be.

And so, they followed.

Obviously pleased, Arthur gave them a knowing smile, and Geoffrey chuckled. "You, Arthur Pendragon, are far cleverer and far braver than your father ever was."

Arthur looked surprised. "No, I would not say that. I just take the risks he did not ever think or have reason to take and go against every one of his beliefs in the process."

Geoffrey thoughtfully studied his young King, and only just loud enough for Merlin to hear, the librarian murmured, "It is far more than that."

Having conquered the council on the subject of Gwen, Arthur formally invited Kay to his wedding, and Merlin, allowing himself to lose focus, stared out one of the windows at the clouds. It was times like this he wished that he went with Gaius on his rounds and skipped the meeting. He had another late night dealing with wedding preparations, and he did not sleep well again—his dreams and thoughts revolved around the mysterious strangers and Ulfric's death, of which he could not, for the life of him, find a way to connect.

Kilgharrah's name jolted him out of his thoughts.

"You invited Kilgharrah, Arthur?" Gwen laughed, a smile in her voice and eyes shining. The Knights were silently smirking, obviously imagining the reactions of various councilors once they learned that a _dragon_ was going to be at their King's wedding. "But how…?"

"Merlin's working on it."

"Merlin's working on what now?" the bemused warlock asked.

Arthur looked at him strangely, and he said, "Sometimes you worry me."

"I'm working on so many things, Arthur," Merlin quipped, "that you need to be a _bit _more specific when bringing up—say, a _specific _thing that I'm supposed to be working on."

"You weren't paying attention, were you?"

Merlin tried to look offended. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

Arthur rolled his eyes and stopped suddenly, a realization dawning on him. "Is this you admitting you have _not _been working on it?"

The Court Sorcerer snorted sarcastically. "Well, perhaps I would be able to admit it or deny it, if you gave me some clue as to what this 'it' is?"

"Can I interrupt?" Kay asked. Both the King and warlock swung their flaming eyes to him with a look that very obviously said _no, _before the two turned back to each other.

"I asked you to figure out how Kilgharrah's going to view the wedding, idiot," Arthur said.

"Ah."

"Ah? That doesn't sound too promising."

Merlin rolled his eyes, but before he could reply, Lord Rupert asked, "_Why _the hell—wait, no, that's not the question. _Who _is Kilgharrah?"

Merlin started to laugh, and the councilors, now realizing that this Kilgharrah had a connection to their Court Sorcerer and therefore, had a connection to magic, looked very concerned.

"The Great Dragon," Merlin answered, chuckling. "Have I never used the name before in these chambers?"

The silence in the room was rather eerie. Merlin felt that it was so silent that he could hear the servants walking outside the thick doors and even their soft voices as they mumbled their lists of chores to themselves.

"How strange, I guess I must not have," Merlin answered for himself.

Suddenly, Kay began to snicker. "You're joking, surely."

"Erm—no, I'm not. I really don't know why or how I've never said his name in this room before."

Snorting, Percival joked under his breath, "Merlin, mate, you're rather out of it today."

With that, some hysterical laughter from Lords Rupert, Owen, and George broke through the silence, and while Geoffrey looked somewhat stunned, but strangely joyful (no doubt he had dreamed of meeting and conversing with a dragon), Lukas and Ulfius looked—well, they had just looked surprised, but now looked infuriated, Kay's men looked terrified, and Kay was _still _chuckling.

"I don't see why this is so funny," Lukas said to his fellow advisors and Kay coolly.

"I agree, sir," Kay said, forcing a straight face, "it is an inappropriate time to laugh."

Arthur's eyes narrowed suspiciously at the growing smirk on Kay's face, and when Kay winked at Merlin, Merlin's own grin broadened diabolically.

It appeared that Kay had some blackmail material that Merlin might be interested in.

"Arthur, have you lost your mind?" Lukas hissed.

"No, I don't think so," Arthur said calmly.

"You invited a dragon to your _wedding_. And not just any dragon!" the Lord spat.

Arthur, eyes flashing with a determined fire, said firmly, "Kilgharrah is our ally, both by choice and by his kinship with his Dragon-Lord, and we can't continue at the pace we're going! It's an insult, really, to him and to Merlin."

"Um, I'm not offended, Arthur. I _agreed_ to the plan. As did Kilgharrah."

The King, of course, ignored him. "The soldiers _need_ to learn to be comfortable fighting and standing with a dragon on their side. What happens if they lose their nerve upon seeing him and cost us a battle? I won't stand for it. The indirect approach is, I agree, working, but not quickly enough."

"Besides that," Gwen added softly, "he is a valued friend, and I _know _that the people are far more curious than afraid about him."

Lukas sneered. "How easily you forgave it after it attacked us! It should not come within our walls."

Growing suddenly and inexplicably irritated, Merlin said dangerously, "He will harm no one, Lukas. I can promise you that, and if there is any trouble, there will be none from _him_."

The underlying message was obvious, and with a lopsided grin that disarmed even Gwen, he stood and said, "It may be best if I warn—" he slipped deliberately, "I mean, I need to inform the guards and soldiers. Is that alright, Arthur?"

The King blinked in astonishment at his friend before nodding and standing as well. "This discussion is closed, and the council is dismissed. I will come with you, Merlin."

Without another word, the King and Court Sorcerer walked shoulder to shoulder out of the room, Kay and Gwen the only two to follow immediately after.

"Those two are going to make my heart stop one day," Geoffrey chuckled, gingerly collecting his papers and notes.

"And that's something to chuckle about?" Lukas grumbled, face deep red.

"Inviting a dragon to his wedding," the bibliophile continued to muse. "Even with a Dragon-Lord at his side—"

"You'd think those two wouldn't be testing their luck with risks like these!" Lukas ranted, completely interrupting Geoffrey. "They've gotten lucky a few times with these strange schemes of theirs, but soon enough, that luck just may run out. What happens when it does? I—I'm worried about th—him."

The Knights that lingered paused at the near slip by Lukas, and Geoffrey himself hid a smile. "Maybe so, my friend, but remember that they have Destiny on their side."

"That's preposterous," Lord Rupert said.

Geoffrey quirked an eyebrow, and a mysterious smile snuck onto his face. "Is it?"

They were silent for a moment, and Lord Owen said with some awe, "Well, cosmic powers aside, I have to say that they have guts." He shook his head. "_A dragon_!"

"C'mon now," Geoffrey said jokingly as he followed Arthur's Knights out. "Don't deny it. You want to meet that dragon just as much as I do."

~…~

"What happened back there?"

Merlin sighed and turned to see Kay accompanied by Gwen. He wasn't surprised that they followed them out. "I just wanted some fresh air," he answered truthfully.

"You expect me to take that as the full answer?" Kay asked skeptically.

"Impressive," Arthur murmured to Gwen, who looked just as impressed as Arthur that Kay had caught Merlin's half-truth so easily.

"Unfortunately, I have little patience with over-reacting fools."

Arthur and Gwen laughed, and Kay said jokingly, "I can imagine that they wouldn't appreciate learning that you insult themoutside the council chambers."

Merlin cocked his head and grinned with a diabolical innocence. "What makes you so sure that they don't already know that I do?"

"You know, Kay, you can try telling them," Arthur rejoined, "and I bet they'd shrug, blink and sigh, or laugh. He's already called them fools _inside_ those chambers," Arthur admitted to Kay. "They're used to his insolent ways."

"Perhaps, but they're more used to witnessing him calling _you_ names, Arthur," Gwen teased.

Arthur scowled at his wife-to-be, but it held no true malice.

She smiled at him and said, "You shouldn't scowl so much, Arthur. I fear it may become permanent."

Kay and Merlin started to laugh as Arthur immediately dropped the scowl. "You can see who is master in _this _relationship," Merlin muttered to Kay.

The scowl reappeared, and Gwen gently smacked his arm, scolding, "Merlin!"

"C'mon, Gwen. You know it's true!"

"Speaking of truth," Kay interceded, "are you _really _going to speak to the soldiers right now?"

"Actually, yes, that wasn't just an excuse," Merlin said, smiling slyly. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason," Kay said with a grin matching Merlin's. "I was just wondering if you could spare a few moments. I think now is a more appropriate time."

Arthur looked between the two, and suddenly realization dawned upon him. "Kay…" he began warningly.

"I have plenty of time. I'm sure Gwen might like to hear this too."

"Hear what?" Gwen asked curiously.

"I believe Kay has a story for us, Gwen, and judging by the shade of Arthur's face—" the King's face was pink with annoyance, anger, and embarrassment "—I think I'm going to like it."

Turning to Kay, Merlin said eagerly, "It has to do with Kilgharrah, doesn't it?"

"Kay, you swore you'd never—"

"Hey, I only swore to keep it a secret from your _father_ and his men."

"Your father?" Merlin interrupted. "Oh, naughty, naughty, what _have _you been doing behind your father's back?" he cooed in a sing-song tone.

Arthur didn't respond, and Kay finished victoriously, "You never said anything about your fiancé or Court Sorcerer."

"Oh, damn," Merlin said with mock-sympathy, "looks like Kay found a loophole in your childhood bargain."

"Shut up, Merlin."

~…~

"_C'mon_, Kay," a twelve-year old Arthur jeered, tugging on Kay's arm. "Don't be such a baby."

Kay wrenched his arm away from the Prince. "I am _not _a baby, Arthur."

"Then prove it," the younger boy challenged him arrogantly, sky blue eyes flashing.

Kay sighed. He may have been fourteen, but Arthur was still his superior and his Prince, the Prince he was working his ass off for, the Prince he was meant to protect with his life. If he got hurt…

"Sire," he said, "your father—"

"What about him?" Arthur snapped.

"He is against this, Arthur. Even if the—" he lowered his voice dramatically, and he and Arthur pressed themselves into the shadows of an alcove"—dragon doesn't kill you, _he _will when he finds out."

"_If _he finds out," Arthur corrected with a smirk. "He doesn't have to know, and he never will know."

"But—"

"Kay. I'm asking you as a friend, but I _can _order you as a Prince," he reminded Kay severely. Kay lowered his eyes submissively in response, and Arthur's tone changed again. "C'mon! It'll be fun!"

"You think getting roasted by a giant lizard is _fun_? No thanks."

"Half of the people in Camelot don't even _know _that the dragon lives in the caves beneath the palace! I was _lucky _to have even found out. Don't you wonder why my father hid it all these years? Why he hid it from me? I'm _curious_, Kay. I want to see what it's like. It's the last one left, you know."

Despite himself, Kay felt the thrill of adventure singing in his blood, and he couldn't deny that he had been immensely curious the moment that Arthur had told him what he had overheard.

He felt himself wavering, and he tried to keep his defense up. It wasn't that he was still fighting because he was trying to be mature and responsible. No, he childishly wanted to prove Arthur wrong and keep face. "What about the guards, Arthur?"

The knight-in-training expected the young boy's blonde head to fall with disappointment. What he had _not _expected was to see a mischievous grin appear on his face.

Arthur plucked a phial from his pocket and smugly showed it to Kay, who floundered for words and felt his resolve crumbling to dust. "I nicked it from Morgana," he said proudly. "It's her sleeping draft, but I expect we won't need it."

"Why not?"

Rolling his eyes, Arthur said, "Those guards won't expect anyone coming in the middle of the afternoon. They're probably napping."

That was when the very last thread holding him to his purpose snipped away. They wouldn't get caught. They _would_ return alive. They would see the dragon, and it was _exciting_.

A smirk appeared on his face, and he whispered to Arthur, "You are brilliant, Sire."

"Whatever gave you the idea that I wasn't?" the Prince asked cockily. Suddenly, his eyes trained on something, and they focused as seriously and quickly as they would have had they been hunting. It was an inquisitive look, a look of concentration and a look of observation. Sometimes, Kay saw the mighty Uther peering from those eyes, and it was then that Kay was struck with the realization of how grand of a king Arthur would one day become.

"Where did you get that?"

Kay followed his Prince's eyes to his chest, where his hand had been unconsciously fiddling at an amulet of rowan and oak that he just received with his father's latest letter. Kay dropped the pendant immediately, and said happily, "My father sent it to me. He bought it in his travels from a peddler-woman. Said it had protective properties."

Kay knew the real reason that his father bought it: ever since Kay could walk, he loved to climb, and whenever he got the chance to fool around or have time to himself, Kay was climbing a tree or sitting in its boughs. As much as he appreciated the physical gift itself, he appreciated the symbolism and the thought far more.

Arthur and Kay snorted simultaneously. "Like magic?" the boy mocked.

Kay snickered. "Don't let Uther hear that word coming from your mouth!"

Arthur rolled his eyes, and Kay continued, "Father did not believe it; he said she sounded half-mad anyway."

"Well, with that," Arthur joked, nodding his head to the necklace, "you needn't worry about getting burnt to a crisp, now do you?"

Sniggering and then quickly calming, the two boys crept cautiously down into the depths of the castle, and Kay was unsurprised to see that Arthur was right and that the guards were snoring at their posts.

After making an expression of contempt at them, Arthur silently tiptoed past and grabbed a lit torch off the bracket near the giant wooden gateway. Kay loyally took another torch, and the two stood before the obnoxiously large, long staircase.

It was chilly, and the staircase seemed to lead into an abyss of never-ending night. "Do you see the end?" Kay murmured into Arthur's ear.

The Prince shook his head, and eyes gleaming with anticipation, he plunged into the darkness.

There was no hesitation other than that of Kay's split second admiration for his Prince's fearlessness and audacity before he followed Arthur down the steps, taking care to keep his footfalls light and trying to control his racing heart.

The air grew colder and danker as they descended, and Kay saw his breath frosting in the air before him. The torchlight leapt eerily across the cavern walls, which became more and more rugged and jagged the further they went.

Soon enough, they reached the end of the stairway to find themselves in a small corridor, which ended with a gaping cave entrance, through which Kay saw a huge cathedral of rock. Spires were formed out of twisting stalactites, towers formed from massive crags, and flying arches and statues formed of intricately curving stalagmites. Right in front of them was a huge jutting rock. It looked scathed by fire and scratches from claws, and jewel-like golden-bronze scales were littered and scattered all over it. Obviously, this was the dragon's favorite perch.

But the dragon itself was no where to be seen…and Arthur was already moving toward the mouth of the giant cavern.

Thinking better of trying to call him back or of trying to advise him to be cautious, Kay once again followed behind the Prince, and within twenty paces, they were standing in the middle of the stone cathedral.

"Where is it?" Kay whispered, still awed by the mere _size _of the cave.

Arthur's eyes scanned the darkness, and he suddenly grabbed Kay's arm, making the elder boy jump out of his skin. The Prince pointed at the floor of the cavern, whispering, "Look."

It took a moment for Kay to see what it was that Arthur was pointing out, and then he noticed them. Shackles.

Following the thick cord of iron with his eyes, Kay soon traced the clinking chain up from the jutting perch through the air—he felt a sweep of vertigo when he saw how _high _the ceiling of the cavern was—and found its end on a cliff across from them.

It was there. The hulking shadow and the vague glimmer of gold could not have betrayed anything _but_ the dragon's form. Yes, it was there, and it could easily see them from were it was sleeping, laying, crouching…

Then, of course, the thing moved, and even from this distance, Kay saw the flash of its strange, unblinking eyes and felt them on him.

The two boys inhaled sharply and froze, not daring so much as to even blink.

Kay knew it saw them, and as it crept out from the shadows of its current perch, he was reminded horribly of his mother's cat stalking a rat. There was the same movements, the same twitch in its tail, and the same strange glint—hunger, bloodthirstiness, or vengeance perhaps?—in its eye.

Cocking its head, the beast peered down at them, and a low rumble reached Kay's ears.

With the force of its take off, some loose shards of rocks rained down, and the dragon snapped open its wings and circled above them once, the chain shuddering and clanking loudly.

Then, it decided to nimbly land on the jagged rock directly in front of them.

Of course, when he looked back on this moment later, Kay would wonder why the hell Arthur and he didn't _run_, but there really was nothing he could have done. It felt as though he _couldn't _move, petrified by the power in the beast's eyes and the proximity of danger.

Kay barely had time to take in the size of the dragon and the dagger-like curves of pearly white fangs poking over its lip before it lowered its massive head to eye-level. Those dark golden eyes were entrancing, and they ran deeper than the endless chasm of the Greek myths' Tartarus. No, they may have been as deep as Taratus, but they weren't filled with evil souls and demons; they were filled with something Kay did not fully understand and had never before witnessed: magic.

The beast cocked its head once again, still contemplating them, and snorted like a horse, causing small jets of fire to escape from its nostrils.

Before Kay could impulsively flinch away, Arthur pushed him back from the flames (which were already going to miss the two boys by at least five meters) and leapt back himself, and as Kay fell onto his backside, the Prince tripped over a loose stone and fell as well.

The dragon stared at them on the floor for what seemed like an eternity, and to Kay's horror its mouth opened wide, baring its teeth at them in a wicked, grotesque smile, and a roaring rumble built up in its chest…

Believing that the dragon was preparing to breathe fire, roast them alive, and then eat them for supper, Kay felt his adrenaline pumping and heart speeding. The pair shouted—they would discuss and agree later that it was indeed shouting and _not_ screaming—and dignity, pride, and honor completely forgotten, the two boys, once so keen for adventure, found themselves tripping with their tails between their legs as they ran.

Behind them, the sound of the dragon's…

~…~

"He was _laughing _at you!" Merlin said between hysterical breaths. "You _do_ realize that don't you?"

"Well, I realize that _now_, _Mer_lin. But at the time…"

Another fit of hysterics hit both the warlock and Gwen. "Who would have thought that the Pendragon Prince would willingly go down to see the Great Dragon behind his father's back?" she giggled. "How ironic."

"I wouldn't've expected him to have the nerve, honestly," Merlin whispered to her alone. She seemed just as surprised as he was to learn that at that age Arthur was not completely brainwashed by Uther and to discover that even then, though it was hidden behind the more shallow desire to show off, the Prince had had a vague interest in magic.

Kay and Arthur exchanged a sheepish look. "This is why," Arthur began slowly, "you _never_ tell Merlin anything. He's a bad influence on her."

"I'm not the one getting into the habit of using the Old Tongue to cuss, Arthur," Gwen retorted. The ex-knight snorted.

"C'mon, Arthur! Ignoring my amusement at your idiocy, I actually found that story very intriguing and eye-opening," Merlin said seriously, giving Arthur a knowing, searching look—a look that displayed the depth of their bond. Merlin broke the eye contact first, and he smirked at Kay. "For your future knowledge, that necklace actually _is_ magical, and it _does _have a protection charm on it."

Kay started back in surprise and picked it up from his chest. "_Really_?"

"Yep. I haven't studied Gypsie* magic much—most of it's rather obscure, questionable, and dark—but it is of their make. I noticed it almost immediately."

"What does it do?"

"In theory," Merlin said carefully, "it prevents you from being watched and seen by those trying to spy on you with magic and from being followed by the evil 'demons' of their religion." Arthur immediately picked up on the significance of that statement and the avoided word '_aura'_, and a small crease appeared between his eyebrows.

"Their entire people harbor an intense fear of having their souls possessed by malicious spirits," he continued, "so it's not an uncommon thing to stumble across."

"Fascinating," Kay said, staring at the amulet. "You were right, Arthur."

"Right about what?"

"Never you mind," Kay said absently, a wily grin on his face. "Can I ask you something? Since you're a Dragon-Lord, you might know why it—sorry—_he _even flew down to us in the first place. I've always wondered…"

Merlin blinked, briefly thinking that Kay could be just as clueless as Arthur. "He wanted to see you, of course," he said matter-of-factly. His 'Dragoon' grin slipped onto his face. "If _you_'ve been shut up in caves for a decade, you'd take advantage of any entertainment you could get."

Arthur muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "_Like dragon, like Dragon-Lord_" before he said to the group, "Let's go; it's getting close to dinner-time, and we probably should go talk to the soldiers now. Merlin, please, try not to frighten them too much."

"Me?" Merlin said innocently. "You're probably going to be doing most of the talking."

Arthur sighed wearily and shook his head. "You coming, Gwen? Kay?"

"Of cour—"

Merlin suddenly stumbled and stubbed his toe on that damn raised stone that he never failed to trip over, and a hiss of "_gástgewinn_"* interrupted Kay and Gwen.

Arthur laughed as Merlin stalked ahead, and Gwen, who had not seen Merlin trip, raised a delicate eyebrow and pursed her lips in disapproval. "Do I want to know?" she asked warily.

"Well, it wasn't as vulgar as the last one you overheard," Arthur assured her once they caught up with the lanky warlock, who was pleasantly surprised and a bit embarrassed when Kay eagerly and immediately began to pester him with questions.

~…~

Merlin shifted uncomfortably and pulled at the sleeves of his far-too-fancy white tunic. He was silently grateful that Gwen was still being held captive in her chambers, surrounded by some friendly, artistic women, who were kindly helping her prepare for the wedding, and by her brother, who was there for support. She would have scolded him and smacked his wrist.

Arthur, fortunately, only smirked at his Court Sorcerer's obvious discomfort, and Merlin thanked the gods that he hadn't needed as much prepping as Gwen. The King had slept in, meaning that Merlin got to sleep in, and bathed and dressed within an hour. He was dressed in skillfully and highly polished armor and scrubbed boots (all courtesy of Merlin's magic), and a fresh, clean scarlet Pendragon cape was thrown over his shoulders and fastened with the usual brooch. Excalibur, as always, was sheathed at his hip, but the crown he was _supposed _to be wearing was waiting for him inside the throne room.

He hadn't even needed a pep-talk. Merlin had simply squeezed his shoulder and smiled at him, and that was all that was necessary.

They were waiting for Kilgharrah in the courtyard, and Merlin was enchanting the wall of the throne room for the dragon so that it would allow him to stick his head in. Soldiers lined the way as more guests filtered into the castle to watch the wedding, and they looked either horrified or curious at the sight of their Court Sorcerer performing magic in public.

The soldiers themselves weren't really watching the nobles filtering in and out of the castle, the bustling servants, or the people that began to leak into the courtyard. They were watching Merlin, Arthur, and the skies.

Some of these men had fought Kilgharrah during his enraged attack of Camelot years before, and some of them had lost friends to the dragon. So, you can see that these 'some' were not too pleased to hear Arthur's news.

With Arthur's reminder that Merlin was a Dragon-Lord and Merlin's calm, quiet, "He will probably laugh and may grow irritated, but he will not hurt you if you threaten him. _If _you threaten him, though, you'll have more than an annoyed dragon on your hands," the soldiers either withheld their anger and suspiciousness with some fear for their Court Sorcerer's blazing, protective eyes or eagerly looked forward to seeing the dragon on friendly ground. However, once they were told by Arthur that they might need to fight next to the dragon in the future, nearly all of the remaining skeptics became resigned and thoughtful or smirked at the thought of facing an enemy with a dragon on their side.

Of course, news of Kilgharrah's invitation into Camelot for the wedding spread and stirred the people. There were few protests, but despite that, there was an overpowering buzz of excitement and curiosity in the air. Many, judging by the amount of people skulking and hanging around the courtyard, were far more than curious and wanted to see the dragon for themselves. Arthur did not do anything to remove them; he just told them to remain at the perimeters of the courtyard to avoid being crushed when the dragon landed.

That was invitation enough for them, and more people came.

So, the soldiers and the people waited beside their King, warlock, and several of their Knights for a sign. It would have been really unnerving, actually, had not Merlin, Arthur, and the Knights been bantering as they usually did.

Merlin felt the dragon nearing Camelot, so he did not call for him and kept an eye to the brilliant sky, the rays of the sun caressing his scarred cheeks.

Kay had asked him about that scar, and Merlin absentmindedly traced the line across his cheekbone that the Gvarath left behind. His answer to the ex-knight's question on how he received it had simply been: "a claw." Arthur had supplied a little more information and had added with clipped tones of hatred, "It was from the claw of a monster that threatened Camelot, and Merlin, Kilgharrah, and I destroyed it just before I learned that Merlin has magic."

Merlin had been relieved that Kay dropped the subject then, but nothing could compare to the relief he felt when he learned that Kay had had that magical amulet for years and had absolutely no idea what it could do. Well, he _still _didn't know of its capability to block Merlin's _aura_ powers, but that was only part of what relieved him. What relieved him the most was that he _hadn't_ known that in the first place. A creeping suspicion had rooted in his mind when he first saw that pendant, and it was like taking a breath of fresh air once the suspicion was proven to be false. He liked Kay; he didn't want to have to be wary around him.

Besides, Kay was hardly being wary around him.

"How d'you know he's coming?" Kay asked Merlin suddenly, breaking through his thoughts. "How does it work? The connection you share?"

Merlin didn't answer because he didn't know _how _to answer, and after a moment, he said softly, "He's coming." The King, who had been laughing at something Leon had said to Percival, immediately swung his gaze to the skies.

"I know _that_," Kay said, obviously forcing patience, "but—"

Squinting at the approaching dot in the sky, Merlin sighed, and Arthur interrupted, "I see him."

Some observant people saw their Court Sorcerer and King's blue eyes stuck fast on a specific point in the sky, and soon, whispers and loud cries alike sounded around the courtyard. They began to raise their fingers and point while the soldiers unconsciously tightened their grip on their weapons.

When Kilgharrah landed before them, the only sound was the rush of air from his wings, the soft, reverberating thud of his feet hitting the ground, and the excitable chatter of the people. The dragon bowed his head to them and ignored the rest of the reception. "Greetings, young warlock. Greetings, young Pendragon."

Once they heard the dragon speak, the people's voices faded as though a silencing spell had been placed over them, and they were overcome with awe.

After they returned the greetings, the dragon looked around in amusement at the wide-eyed, frozen figures surrounding him. "Hello, people of Camelot."

They, as expected, did not return any words, and Kilgharrah huffed. "They were a lot livelier the last time I was here."

"When you nearly burnt the place down?" Merlin scoffed. "Yeah, I can imagine that they were a bit more animated."

Kilgharrah blew a puff of air at Merlin, which for some reason loosened up the crowd considerably. Perhaps it was because he was nearly knocked over and had further tousled his messy, unmanageable black hair.

"I was thinking of the time I invited myself to our young King's coronation, young one." After he looked over the faces surrounding him musingly, he then greeted Gwaine, who amused the golden dragon to no end.

Merlin suddenly felt a creeping feeling down his spine, and his eyes flickered to a soldier who seemed to be getting a little too excited for comfort. And by 'a little too excited,' Merlin meant that said soldier was preparing a group of men to raise and aim their spears at the dragon.

He nudged Arthur and gestured to the dozen-or-so men.

"Aren't you going to do something?" Arthur whispered into his ear.

"Hell no," Merlin said with a smirk. "Well, not yet. Just watch."

With a harsh war-cry (Merlin really didn't understand why warriors tended to this; it gave you away to the enemy, and it made so much more sense to shout at the top of your lungs _after_ the strike), the soldiers struck as one, their spears shattering into pieces against the dragon's scales.

Kilgharrah, who had just finished saying his 'hello' to the last Knight in line, did not feel a thing or even turn around to the shouts, and the look on the soldiers' faces was absolutely priceless. Kay was one of few Knights to witness the incident, and he began to laugh.

Merlin, on the other hand, controlled his hilarity, and he called to the leader, "John." A look of wild alarm flashed across his features, and flinching violently, the broken spear shaft fell guiltily from his fingers. His men froze behind him and dropped their useless weapons as well.

"What are you doing?" he asked with dancing eyes.

Kilgharrah followed his Dragon-Lord's gaze to the shattered spears, and he started chuckling. "Trying to attack me, it appears."

John had had a look of fierce look of stubborn disapproval blazing in his eyes, but suddenly, with the teasing from both dragon and Dragon-Lord, the fight seemed to extinguish and a look of overwhelmed horror replaced it. "I—I—"

Arthur, who looked more amused than anything, gestured for him to approach them, and when he remained frozen and slack-jawed, Leon rolled his eyes and pushed the soldier towards the King and Court Sorcerer.

"John," Merlin sighed, "spears won't do much of anything against a dragon."

"...I—I know."

"Then why'd you use them?" he asked curiously. "Surely there's a better weapon—well, actually, there isn't a mortal weapon that I know of that can bring down a dragon. There may be some magic—"

Kilgharrah sniffed. "I'm glad to hear you discussing how to kill me, Merlin."

"Stop being a spoil-sport, Kilgharrah. I'm trying to teach him—them—something here. So," he addressed the soldier again, "why did you choose a spear?"

The young man John, looking very much confused and lost, blinked in astonishment, and he just shook his head, avoiding Merlin's eyes.

"Tell me something, John: do you trust our King?"

Those eyes immediately flickered to Merlin's. "Yes," the man said strongly, a determined fire returning to his eyes.

"And do you trust me?" After a moment's pause, he joked, "Wait, don't answer that. I don't think it's a really fair question."

"No, no," the soldier denied passionately. "My family is indebted to you, Master Merlin—you and Gaius healed my father last week. And after all the stories I've heard—" Merlin saw Gwaine smugly cross his arms in his peripheral vision and mouth '_you're welcome' _to Arthur—"I _do_ trust you, Merlin Emrys, just as much as I do King Arthur."

Hiding his blush at the unexpected answer, Merlin smiled slyly, and without anything further from Merlin, John realized what he had just said and the implications of his words and winced at the thoughtless impulsiveness and rashness of his actions. "I'm sorry; I'm so sorry, Sire, Merlin Emrys, Kilg—Kilgharrah. I—I really don't know what—I guess I was just—"

"He made a mistake," Arthur rejoined kindly. "Even the best of us make mistakes, and you owe your life to this dragon. Without him, Camelot would have been flattened long ago. You would do well to remember who your true enemies are."

The soldier looked suitably ashamed of himself, and his fellows scuffed their boots.

"Hey," Merlin said softly, "No harm done."

"So much for the wrath of a Dragon-Lord, _Mer_lin," Arthur jibbed.

"They were not much of a threat, "Merlin laughed teasingly, taking care not to sound degrading. "I can hardly begin a true tirade. Besides, I expected this. And it was better dealt with now than later, don't you agree, John?"

The soldier, still downcast, agreed softly, and just as Merlin took pity on him and was going to stroke his ego a little, Kilgharrah did it for him.

"You have an admirable spirit, young soldier. I am honored to fight at the side of men like you."

"Thank—thank you," John said, stuttering under the serious gaze of the dragon and force of conviction in his words. A few people and soldiers around the edges of the courtyard whooped for John.

Kilgharrah blinked at him for a moment, and Merlin recognized the glittering, shimmering, glazed look in his eye. He was searching and observing with that powerful gift of his, and therefore, Merlin was unsurprised when his friend added softly, "Congratulations, my good man. Your wife has just gone into labor, but you may rest easy; both she and the baby will be perfectly fine if you fetch the midwife at once."

John's eyes widened, and he staggered back. "Oh—my—" He looked like he was going to faint, but then, his eyes snapped back, looking completely panicked and conflicted.

"Don't worry about your post, John! Go to your wife," Arthur ordered with a smile. He slapped the man on the back amicably.

Without question or hesitation, he dashed away drunkenly, calling and yelling over his shoulder that the baby was coming and that he was going to be a father; several people excitedly followed him out, and others looked at Kilgharrah with awe.

"Well, that was nice of you, Kilgharrah," Merlin grumbled.

"Why the tone, Merlin? I just gave him good news."

Merlin immediately shot back, "No, no, that's not it! You talked to him _clearly_! Why is it that you save the incomprehensible riddles for _me_?"

Kilgharrah laughed. "You're the only one who deserves it."

"In less cryptic words," Merlin teased, "you do it to annoy me."

"Do you see what I have to deal with?" Kilgharrah asked the air. Merlin's friends all smirked.

"It's nearly time," Lancelot announced suddenly over the sounds of mirth courtesy of the dragon's last comment.

"You'd better get in there before you're late, Merlin," the King joked, waving at the crowd.

After rolling his eyes and allowing Arthur to make the quip without responding with a retort, he called politely to the crowds, "Have a nice day."

As he, Arthur, the dragon, and the Knights turned away to walk into the palace, they were followed with the wonderful sound of quiet _applause_—applause for Arthur, applause for Gwen, and applause for the Great Dragon_—_and Kilgharrah's gentle and satisfied praise, "Well done."

~…~

It had been a _long_ morning.

From the moment she woke, there had been maids bustling about her, helping her bathe, helping her into the complicated and regal dress of blue-violet and swirling gold-patterned silk that hugged her curves and that sported a neckline that made her flush, helping her dry and fix her hair, and _trying_ and miserably failing to convince her to wear some of the extravagant jewels that a few Ladies of the court had gifted her.

The dress was already a jewel, she believed, and the only piece of jewelry she was completely comfortable wearing was the ring that Arthur had given her.

The women giggled and whispered compliments as they prepared her, and the last pin was just being adjusted in Gwen's long curls when she heard—well, more _felt_—Kilgharrah land in the courtyard. She gleefully gathered her dress, rushed to the window barefooted, and only just managed to see the arch of one of the dragon's wings as he folded them across his back.

She felt so light-hearted with happiness that she almost imagined that she could start floating off the ground. It seemed so silly to her that just days before she felt her heart flutter with panic at the thought of the wedding day; now all she could think of now was that Arthur and she were going to be together—_finally_ together. As she was forced to remain still when the women worked on her dress and hair, she recalled Arthur's soft blue eyes and the magical rose he held out to her, she recalled Merlin's laughter and words of comfort and wisdom, she recalled Gaius' eyes tearing over, and she, of course, recalled Elyan, who braved the giggly and boring morning to remain with her. She both envied and pitied him. He hadn't even _seen _the completed picture yet, but he hadn't been the one subjected to these over-the-top women.

She drew away from the windows and patiently allowed the women to fix her skirts and a loose curl, and once they held her arms for balance as she stepped into death-traps of shoes and were completely satisfied with her appearance, they left.

"Thank gods," Elyan complained, entering her main chambers for the first time since they ushered him out hours ago. "It's nearly—" her elder brother stopped in his tracks, and his jaw dropped at the sight of his sister.

Gwen blushed at his open and flattering reaction, and he said, "Gwen, you—you look beautiful."

"Thank you, Elyan."

"Mum and Dad would be proud. _I_'m proud of you, Gwennie."

She didn't have the heart to bristle at the childhood nickname, and instead, she accepted her brother's embrace wordlessly.

"Are you ready?" he asked softly, offering her an arm.

She hooked her arm through his and answered, "I've been ready."

~…~

The moment Guinevere walked through the doors, Elyan ducking imperceptibly to his place in the front lines, everyone's attention was diverted from the strange sight of a dragon's head sticking through the throne room wall (Merlin had had trouble preventing himself from laughing as a few careless nobles leaned against the seemingly solid wall and fell through with a yelp, only to return into the throne room grumbling and blushing furiously) and redirected it unto their Queen.

She was simply glowing.

It was captivating to see her looking at Arthur with those peaceful, shiningeyes, eyes that portrayed nothing but bliss and joy, and to see him return the gaze. He and she were sharing a lover's smile and seemed completely oblivious to everyone but their chosen one. There was something both sweet and rather scary about the possessive air surrounding them: they both knew, with every fiber of their beings, that they belonged to one another, and _no _one was going to deny them that right nor were they going to allow them to even _think_ of denying them that right.

When Gwen reached Arthur and her hand was in his, the spell was broken, and Merlin, standing nearest the bride and groom with Aislin, Gwen's maid of honor, felt a smile spread across his face and never once fade throughout the entire ceremony.

Soon enough, the crown was sitting on Gwen's head, and she and Arthur shared their first kiss as husband and wife.

Merlin was the first to take up the chant, and all throughout the castle, there were cries of, "Long live the Queen!"

Once the cheering died and the nobles were about to be directed to the feast by servants, Kilgharrah snaked his head further into the room so that he was face-to-face with Gwen and Arthur.

He muttered a blessing in Dragon-Tongue and touched the tip of his snout delicately to Arthur's forehead and then Gwen's. "Young Pendragon," he declared, causing everyone to turn to him. "'This damsel is the most valiant and fairest lady that I know living, or yet that ever I could find.'* Treasure her. And you, dear Guinevere, this King, chosen by Destiny, is once and for always…his, ours, _yours_. Treasure him."

* * *

><p>AN: *I spell "Gypsie" wrong purposefully, and if I ever use it again, I will continue to spell it that way.<p>

*_gástgewinn _means 'pains of hell' (thank you, Old English translator)

*This is a quote from the real Geoffrey of Monmouth. Arthur originally says it to Merlin in this work that I borrowed it from. I found it on some site that I can't recall. :)

Well, I hope you're not too disappointed with me, but I have good news that may make up for this lousy chapter: I have an idea for a new fic, totally unrelated to Prophesized, set post-series 4. I'm still debating on what exactly I'm going to do with this idea and when I'm going to write it (during or after this fic), but I thank Oya.22 for unintentionally inspiring me to somehow imagine up an entire scene with a single pm and the words 'Arthur/Dragoon stuff' ;)

As always, sorry for my mistakes (I, for some reason, was catching a lot of them this chapter, so I expect I missed just as many), and thank you for your support, everyone. :)

Oz out.


	9. Quota

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: Here's another one! :D I know: surprising. But don't get used to these speedy updates. Spring break's almost over, and I'll be back to more sporadic updates. :P Anyway, I had loads of fun with this chappie. It's a lot shorter than the last one, and there's a lot of nonsense banter (hence the lovely and perfect quote I found in my latest English novel *see below*), some bromance, another Kay-Merlin bonding scene, and FINALLY some action.

I shall note now that I make references to horse-shoes and rusting armor that are possibly wrong and may prove my ignorance on said topics, but, for the sake of the story, we'll assume that I'm not wrong. :P

I shall also note now that I discovered the Crocotta on the Internet while searching through medieval bestiaries, and I will admit that I tweaked the original just a bit. ;)

Enjoy:

* * *

><p>"<em>After all, when one thinks about it, it is not such a foolish thing to indulge in—particularly if it is the case that in bantering lies the key to human warmth."<em> –The Remains of the Day (Kazuo Ishiguro)

* * *

><p><strong>Quota<strong>

"You know, Merlin, you're not what I expected."

Merlin suspected that the ex-knight was talking more to himself than to him, and he did not look up from the mare's hoof when he muttered, "If I had a shilling for every time someone said that to me…"

Kay laughed, and the warlock, who was currently kneeling on the forest floor and checking Sannan's* horse's hooves, suddenly released a small, joyous whoop of triumph.

"That sounds like good news," Percival commented as he replaced the cap of his water-skin and reentered the clearing that was to be their campsite.

Arthur hadn't been too pleased to call this clearing their campsite—he had hoped to gain more ground that day—but they could have hardly continued on once they halted their party to care for the slow, protesting mare. It had taken at least fifteen minutes of arguing for Merlin to get Arthur to think practically. The prat had wanted to continue on with an hour left before sundown, and Merlin, in his usual blunt way, had said that that was "a completely stupid idea." The entire party had already stopped, and by the time Merlin was done looking at the hooves, it was rather useless to think of mounting up again—not to mention that, by the time he was done, a campfire could already be blazing and cooking their dinner.

Needless to say, Merlin won the argument, and Arthur was sulking (Merlin was sure that that was more because he was hungry than because he lost the argument). The others, tired, sore, and keen to rest after the long, hard ride, had no problem with the arrangements and were grateful.

"Just a stone caught in her shoe," Merlin announced happily. "From the way she was walking, I was afraid it was something far worse."

Deftly and carefully, Merlin's long fingers maneuvered the little stone out from where it was wedged, and for the mare's comfort, he muttered a small spell that would dull the ache.

Percival watched him remove the stone with some amazement. "It's hard to believe that someone as frightfully clumsy as you can do something as delicate as _that_."

Gwaine and Lancelot roared with laughter, and Merlin chuckled. "You seem to forget, Perce, that before I was Court Sorcerer or even Arthur's servant, I was just a farm-boy, and what kind of farm-boy would I be if I didn't know how to successfully remove a stone from a horse's shoe?"

"A lousy one?" Gwaine suggested, making Arthur smirk.

Merlin rose to his feet and patted the mare's neck. "There," he cooed to her. "You were just being a big baby, weren't you?"

The mare chose that moment to shake her head and paw at the ground with a sheepish-sounding whinny, and Kay blinked in surprise at the eerie coincidence. "Definitely not what I expected," he murmured to himself.

"What? A warlock can't be good with animals?" Merlin held out the reins to Sannan, who had been glowering all the while, and said kindly, "Here you go."

The young nobleman snatched the reins back with a feral, irritated look on his face, and without saying thank you, he stalked away to his four fellows, who, Merlin couldn't help but notice, were forming their own circle away from Arthur and the Knights.

"You're welcome!" Merlin called after him.

Kay watched the young man go with a look of angry disapproval on his face. "Ungrateful swine," he sighed. "I'm sorry about him—them."

"It doesn't matter," Merlin muttered offhandedly. He knew what the foreigners—though he and they had been born in the same land, _he _was a Camelotian in body, mind, and spirit, and no one could say differently—thought of him and his magic, and he also knew that there was very little he could do about it. All he could do was ignore their discourtesy and nasty looks, be himself, and pray that Arthur, Gwaine, Lancelot, and Percival left them be. He knew that his friends were trying to help by defending him and by attempting to make them see the various shades of gray in their limited black-white vision, but sometimes, that just made things a hell of a lot worse. That was something _they_ had to sort out themselves.

So, he obviously sidestepped, and instead, he teased, "I'm used to helping rude nobles who think they're too good to say 'I'm sorry,' 'I was wrong', or 'thank you'."

Arthur did not hear the jibe—nor was he meant to—but Merlin found himself using same fond, sarcastic tone he would have used if he _had _been expecting the King to retort.

This did not go unnoticed by Kay, who studied Merlin for a moment before saying, "You really care about him, don't you?"

Smiling wryly, he answered in the true spirit of a certain manservant and Prince, a pair who always had trouble admitting that they were friends, "Why wouldn't I? He's my King."

"That's not what I meant."

Merlin quirked an eyebrow, but before he could say anything, Lancelot called out, "Hey, you lot! The stew's ready."

Kay didn't hesitate, Percival carelessly dropped the water-skins he refilled near the tethered horses, and, before Merlin could blink, all of the ravenous men crowded Lancelot with their bowls at the ready. Shaking his head to himself, the thin warlock, of course, waited until all the burly, bear-like warriors got their bowls filled to the brim before he served himself a significantly less hefty portion.

"Is that _all_ you want, Merlin?" Gwaine asked through a mouthful of food, eyeing the bowl in his hands dubiously.

"If Gwen were here, she'd tell you off for talking with your mouth full," Merlin commented.

"If Gwen were here, she'd coerce you into eating more," Gwaine responded.

"If Gwen were here, she'd get both of you to shut up," Arthur muttered darkly.

"Something tells me that Gwen's going to be a good mother," Percival laughed, causing Arthur to look a little sick.

Gwaine cackled. "Look at his face, Perce! I don't think he's ready for little princesses and princes to be waddling around just yet."

Arthur scowled as Merlin, Kay, and Lancelot snorted and erupted into peals of laughter. The other men looked horrified by the strange intimacy of the group and the extremely personal nature of the joking, and they withdrew and whispered to each other.

"We've only been married three days," Arthur said in his defense.

"Yeah, but _we_ can't tell what you've been doing those three days!" Gwaine snorted, wiggling his eyebrows.

With a strangled growl, Arthur lunged at Gwaine, but Merlin intervened. Eyes flashing gold, Merlin caused Arthur to slam into an invisible wall, and Gwaine was knocked backwards off the log by the force of the spell. Unused to Merlin's spontaneous, nonverbal spell-casting (Merlin had hardly done any magic at all in front of the ex-knight in Camelot), Kay yelped, but his men reacted more violently and reached for the swords beside them.

"Ow!" Arthur rubbed his head, and he redirected his bad temper unto Merlin. "What the hell was that for, Merlin?"

"We're on our way to settle a _peace _treaty, and you two are _brawling_. I know it's been a long day, but stop trying to jump down each other's throats, alright? I don't want to have to deal with it right now."

"But he—"

"Save it for the taverns, Gwaine," Arthur sighed. "Merlin's right."

Merlin blinked. "Did you just admit that I was _right_?"

"And was that _almost _an apology?" Gwaine tacked on.

Merlin laughed, and avoiding Arthur's narrow-eyed glare, he laid his food aside to retrieve one of the water-skins Percival had dropped on the other side of camp.

"You alright there?" Merlin heard Lancelot whisper aside to Kay as Arthur bickered with the roguish Knight.

"…Yeah," Kay muttered, a thoughtful gleam in his eye.

Percival grinned at him and genially clapped the still-surprised ex-knight on the shoulder. "Takes less time to get used to than you might think."

With a small smile on his face, Kay did not respond and shook his head. "He didn't use a spell."

"He doesn't always need to," Lancelot muttered.

"I've never heard of that," Kay said slowly. Merlin felt those wide-set eyes on his back.

"Merlin's different," Percival said as though that explained everything. There was something protective in his voice, and silently, Merlin thanked his giant of a friend for respecting his uneasiness and discomfort in sharing with strangers that he was 'the Emrys.' Sure, Arthur had already stuck him with the surname. Sure, he had grown used to the Druids calling him Emrys (though he was _not _comfortable with their deference to him), but that did not mean that anyone but the Druids, Gaius, and his closest friends knew _exactly _what the name meant and the destiny that was attached to it.

And he wanted to keep it that way…even if his strange, powerful magic wasn't clue enough already.

"Merlin, what are you doing?" Gwaine suddenly called in confusion.

"Getting water," Merlin said, turning around and returning to the circle. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

Arthur's eyebrows rose, and when Merlin sat again, he murmured to him, "Why didn't you just summon it?"

Merlin's eyes briefly flickered to Kay's men and back again to Arthur's, which immediately blazed with his _don't-you-dare-give-a-damn-about-them_ look. "Are you giving me the excuse to be lazy, Arthur?" he teased. His tone may have been playful, but his stormy blue eyes betrayed his true thoughts to his King.

With a hidden sigh and an evil-looking grin on his face, the King said suggestively, "Speaking of being lazy—"

Lancelot groaned. "Let him finish eating first, Arthur! Knowing him and judging by how late he was this morning, he probably hasn't eaten all day."

Merlin rolled his eyes. No, he hadn't eaten that morning, but he _did _sneak something from his pack-saddle in the afternoon. In his opinion, they worried _far _too much about him and his eating habits.

To placate them, he ate everything in his bowl before going to water and feed the horses, which was the chore Arthur had oh-so-subtly hinted that he wanted done, and once that was taken care of, he, without waiting for his master's orders, took up the dinner dishes and announced he was going to wash them.

He was surprised when Kay offered to go with him. "You're going to help me wash dishes?"

His companion grinned and joked, "Someone's got to make sure you don't fall in and drown."

Merlin scowled. Unfortunately, the ex-knight was already very familiar with his curse of gracelessness, and after he cautiously tested his own wit against the warlock's during his three-day stay in Camelot and discovered that he could hold his own, he found just as much pleasure in teasing him about it as Arthur did.

"Last time someone said that," Merlin grumbled, "I ended up being pushed into the river anyway."

"Hey, mate!" Gwaine complained. "I thought we were being attacked."

"It was a rabbit rustling in the underbrush, Gwaine," Merlin reminded him.*

"But it _could _have been bandits."

"Bandits don't have long ears and a fuzzy tail. Besides, I _can _defend myself from both little animals and blood-thirsty bandits. You didn't have to push me in."

The Knight sniffed. "Perhaps next time I'll think twice before trying to save your life."

"From a rabbit?"

Arthur laughed, "Give it up, Merlin! You were just annoyed that he got your precious cloak all wet."

"Says the man who's afraid his armor'll rust over when I accidentally spill a goblet-full of water on him," Merlin retorted.

"My armor has absolutely nothing to do with this, _Mer_lin," Arthur growled.

"And neither does my cloak."

"If you weren't so obsessed with the thing…"

"I am not obsessed with it!"

"Merlin, you enchanted it so that it repels water and fire, you've charmed it to act as a shield, and who _knows _what other spells you've cast on it so that it lasts you your entire lifetime."

"Aren't _you_ the one always going on about how I get into trouble without armor and how I should be wearing armor when I get into trouble? The cloak _is _my armor as much as _your_ armor is your armor."

"That made absolutely no sense," Percival commented.

"Why the hell are you bringing up armor again? That has nothing to do with this!"

"I think the more important question is: why the hell are you even having this argument?" Kay said, looking completely bemused and gesturing between the warlock and King.

"I was wondering much of the same, Kay," Lancelot said, snickering.

"This is… ridiculous."

"I agree, Kay," Merlin said in a dignified way. "C'mon. We're wasting time. Let's go before the sun's set."

"Don't push him in, Kay!" Gwaine warned jokingly as the two exited their campground. "You'll never live it down!"

~…~

The sky was already tinged with peach and gold, and the sounds of nocturnal animals stirring and of the night breezes kissing the treetops were already starting to reach Merlin's ears.

With the shadows lengthening around them, they walked in silence for five minutes before finding a stream.

Merlin, muttering under his breath about prats and armor, rolled up his sleeves, knelt in the riverbank, and began to scrub.

He had almost forgotten that Kay was with him until the ex-knight asked, "Why don't you use magic? It would be faster and easier, wouldn't it?"

The manservant-warlock rinsed the pot and set it aside. "Sure it would," he said cheerily. "But just because I can doesn't mean I should."

"Why shouldn't you?" Kay scoffed. "It's just a simple chore."

"If I used my magic for _everything_, I wouldn't be me," Merlin answered truthfully.

"But, forgive me if I'm wrong, I assumed that…magic _is _you."

Merlin looked up with no-longer-amused eyes, and Kay said hurriedly, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry or offend you."

"No, don't worry about _that_," Merlin said. "I was just wondering what gave you that idea."

"I'm not as unobservant as Arthur," Kay explained cautiously. "I've heard things."

After a moment of silence, Merlin said slowly, "I may have been born with magic, but I don't let it rule me. I rule it."

"It's powerful enough to rule _you_?"

"In some ways."

"I don't understand you, Merlin."

"You wouldn't be the first," Merlin laughed. Trying to explain again, he continued, "I'd rather not use my magic all the time because I'm not _just_ a warlock, and I don't want to be just a warlock. This work—I don't mind doing it. It reminds me that I'm no different than I was before magic was legal, no different than that peasant-idiot that grew up in Ealdor. Merlin. Not Merlin Emrys."

"But you are him too."

"That's my point," Merlin said, smiling.

"I still don't…"

"Let me tell you a story, Kay. Merlin grew up afraid and alone with a secret that could have him killed. He grew up living a lie and lying through life, wondering why the hell he had these powers and what the hell he could use them for when there was no one who wanted them, least of all himself. But despite it all, he went to Camelot, and he learned to control his magic and learned that yes, while he could not live without magic, he wasn't limited to it. He grew in ways that he could not have otherwise and became aware of his destiny. He was the one that met Arthur in the square that morning and the one that became the secret protector and guide. Merlin Emrys is nothing without Merlin. And he is me. Do you see?"

Kay gaped in astonishment for a moment, and he stammered, "I think I do see."

"If two names fit to one, I don't see why one can't be both."

The moment Merlin said those words, he felt as though he finally understood the true reason why Arthur announced him to the world as Merlin Emrys. The King had said it was to give them all no doubt of who he was, and Merlin had only just realized… He didn't like being identified as two separate people—Merlin and Emrys—and that was why he didn't like that Arthur stuck 'Emrys' as his surname because Emrys was the secret identity that Merlin never wanted to have. The 'Emrys' symbolized all the secrets he had to keep and all the lies he ever told as much as it did his overwhelming destiny. Some part of him was convinced that Arthur was unintentionally forcing him to finally embrace the idea of being two people. But with the knowledge that the epiphany granted him, he had broken past those barriers to see that 'Merlin Emrys' was not two, but _one_.

And had always been one.

_Thank you, Arthur._

"That sounded…wise."

"I may be an idiot—" given the epiphany he just had, he could not deny that—"but I'm not a complete idiot."

The ex-knight cracked a grin, and with his pale teal eyes dancing, he asked, "Are all conversations with you going to be this way?"

"Have you learnt nothing from listening Arthur and I argue?"

"The only thing I know for sure is that you're either brilliant or completely mad."

Merlin laughed. "You're alright, Kay."

"Thanks?" he said uncertainly.

"Merlin!"

"That was Percival," Merlin muttered. It was dark now, and though he had always had good night vision and though the others were used to him stalking out and about at night, it touched him that they had come into the habit of sending someone to look for him with a torch on these overnight journeys when he found himself alone after sunset.

"Kay?" Lancelot called.

Shivers crept up his spine, and goosebumps prickled. Something wasn't right.

"We're over—!"

Merlin lunged at the man and clamped a hand over his mouth, hissing at him to be quiet.

"Kay?" one of Kay's men called again. Kay struggled against Merlin for a moment before submitting and quieting.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Kay whispered once Merlin removed his hand.

"The voices are coming from the wrong direction," Merlin murmured chillingly, his kaleidoscopic eyes scanning the forest for a sign of movement.

"And you're all shook up because of _that_?" Kay rolled his eyes. "They probably overshot us."

"Kay…" Merlin warned warily.

"MERLIN!" The owner's voice cracked with fear and panic, freezing Merlin's blood and making his stomach drop to his toes. It was Arthur, and he sounded frantic. No not frantic. He sounded like he was in mortal danger and needed his help.

But Arthur would not scream his name like that if he was in trouble. For one, if he was in trouble, he'd try (in vain) to make sure that Merlin was not involved. But most importantly, Arthur did not scream for help. Ever. His pride and hero-complex prevented him from doing so. Screaming was a weakness, and he was King.

Kings do not show weakness.

"Arthur!" Kay lunged to his feet, eyes blazing determinedly, and as he charged forward, the unmistakable hiss of a sword sliding from its scabbard cut through the night.

Cursing violently, Merlin kicked over the dishes accidentally as he surged to his feet, and he sprinted after him. Shadows blurred as he ran while the voices continued to call, pulling him and Kay further and further from the campsite.

He caught up with the ex-knight within fifteen seconds and not a moment too soon.

Out of the underbrush, a beast the size of a mule, foaming at the mouth and laughing with Arthur's voice, leapt. Its red eyes were focused on Kay, and its huge paws, dangerous claws, and slobbering shark-like teeth aimed to kill.

Merlin shouted wordlessly and pushed Kay to the ground, whipping around in that same instant to blast the shadowy animal away from them.

The thing tumbled over in the air and yipped loudly when it rammed into a tree. Kay was groaning on the forest floor, and Merlin, his senses hyperaware and adrenaline pumping, protectively stood in front of the ex-knight as the beast regained its footing and sent a blood-curdling growl of loathing in his direction, red eyes gleaming with blood-lust.

It shot forward, but Merlin was prepared. Raising his arm and feeling his magic boiling under his skin, he yelled, "_Ofsting_!"

A golden jet of light billowed from his fingertips and missed the giant animal by centimeters. Merlin, however, stood his ground, and before the thing could run into him, he hastily and instinctively conjured a shield.

It slammed into the warlock and his shield, and the force of its attack knocked him off his feet and onto his back. While the thing snapped at his neck, and rancid slobber dribbled onto his face, he struggled to maintain the invisible barrier between the beast's claws and his chest.

Merlin grunted at the weight on his mind—the thing was extremely _heavy—_and desperately straining himself to keep the shield up, he shouted again, "_Ofsting!_"

This time, the jet of light did not miss the beast, and the spell struck it directly, cutting through the thick muscle of its burly chest and hitting its heart. Sickly purple blood gushed and splashed from the wound, and with its red eyes dimming, the thing collapsed and slid off of Merlin.

Shivering and gasping, Merlin released the magic of the shield and felt instant relief. He closed his now-blue eyes briefly and took a few calming breaths. When he opened them again, Kay was standing above him, holding out a hand with a strange look on his face.

Coated with saliva and blood, Merlin gratefully took a hold of the hand, and Kay helped him up.

"You saved my life," Kay said hoarsely. "Twice."

Merlin did not answer: his muscles still felt uncooperative and shaky, and his throat was as dry as desert sand.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," Merlin whispered, gaining his head once again and crouching by the dead beast.

"_Léoht_." A glowing ball of light flickered into being on his palm, and Merlin, wrinkling his nose against the smell of the creature's blood, carefully ran it over the prone corpse.

It looked like a giant dog with shaggy, coarse, black-brown fur, a short snout, and too-small pointed ears. A thick mane of black, resembling a horse's, sprouted from the crown of its head, ran down its long neck, and tapered to an end between its massive shoulder blades. Its paws were easily three times the size of Merlin's hands, and its mouth was overflowing with rows of sharp teeth. A long tongue, the same ghastly purple as its blood, spilt from the overcrowded jaws.

Merlin froze, a picture of this beast from one of Gaius' books floating before his eyes. He remembered reading that it could mimic human voices (proven), its bite was poisonous and most usually lethal (he'd rather not see that one proven), and…

"What the hell is it?" Kay asked in horror.

Swearing once again, Merlin jumped to his feet and yelled in panic, "Crocotta! They hunt in packs!"

The forest shuddered with the scream of a man.

~…~

Somehow, they had gotten separated. Arthur would have blamed Merlin and Kay for losing each other in the forest, therefore splitting their search party, if he hadn't been attacked by a giant dog laughing Merlin's laugh.

Gwaine and he managed to kill the thing with a really dimwitted, impulsive distraction (courtesy of Gwaine) and a lucky sword thrust.

But it was just his luck that another one with rusted orange fur took its place.

Before he knew it, he was fighting back-to-back with Percival, and Lancelot and Kay's men were busy with a black dog. Gwaine, muttering profanity, rushed in to help.

Circled around them, having successfully cornered and trapped the entire group, was a pack of them, their yellow and red eyes glinting demonically and nasty purple tongues lolling from their mouths.

Sannan was the first to be injured. A tan dog snapped at his arm, slicing through flesh and hitting bone, and he screamed. It giggled at him in a woman's voice that Arthur did not recognize, but before it could tear out the man's throat, Percival stabbed it through the back.

Purple blood mixed with crimson.

Lancelot managed to pull the wounded, barely conscious young man towards the small hill at their backs and only just avoided being bitten himself. Sannan's brother killed that one.

There seemed to be an overwhelming amount of dogs in comparison to men. They killed three total—perhaps as many as six if Arthur estimated and counted the ones that they had fought and slain whilst they had been separated—but each one was replaced by two more.

Why was he _always _outnumbered? No, that wasn't what he should have been asking himself. He should have been asking: how many more were there to kill?

Before he could begin to answer that question, a silver beast pounced at him. With a yell, Arthur sidestepped and swung his arm to intercept the animal with Excalibur, but he misjudged its speed, weight, and size. The claws skimmed past his chest, but the animal's muscled body hit his arm, wrenching it in a direction it was _not _supposed to go and tearing the shoulder from its socket.

Blinded by a red haze of pain, Arthur was sent sprawling. Excalibur flew from his fingers, and he could do nothing more than clutch at his wounded arm and hiss through his teeth.

That was when he first thought that he might die that night, and a part of him—the small part not focused on survival and his impending death—wondered if Merlin was alright and prayed to the gods that he wouldn't die the same way.

Then there was another small part of him couldn't help but feel irritated that he was going to be killed by a dumb dog.

The silver dog that dislocated his shoulder was giggling at him with Gwen's voice as it pranced towards him once again, its yellow eyes hungry for his flesh. The others cried his name, but they were to busy fighting for their own lives to break from their dance with death and come to his aide.

So, when a jet of golden light, poorly aimed and entirely missing the dog by a good meter, shot past him, ironically enough, he knew that he'd be alright.

Merlin was there.

Even though the spell didn't hit the wolfish dog (_When this was over, Merlin_, he promised to himself,_ you're going to start practicing your aim whether you want to or not)_, it was enough to distract it from Arthur, and gritting his teeth, he rolled to his feet and scooped up Excalibur with his left hand.

Merlin looked frightening. His face was crusted with darkening purple blood, and his hair was slick with sweat, slobber, and more blood, making it stick up in all directions. It would have been immensely comical if his severe, dangerous eyes weren't glowing with magic and the air around him wasn't crackling with an incomprehensible amount of power.

It _was _comical, however, to see that Merlin's midnight blue cloak was completely clean of the carnage and was as velvety as it had been the day Arthur gave it to him.

Pain and exhaustion made him completely giddy, obviously.

"_Bael on byrne_!" Merlin commanded harshly. A small wall of fire blocked the silver dog's path to Arthur, and it yelped as the fire singed its vulnerable paws. The rest of the pack whimpered and gave the fire wide berth.

Thinking quickly, Arthur yelled to the group, "To the fire!"

Merlin, as usual, seemed to come to the same realization as the King simultaneously and summoned more fire to blaze between the pack and their group while the others scrambled to obey Arthur. The mutts stupid enough to think that they could still strike a cheap shot caught on fire and went up in a blazing inferno. Their horrendous cries pierced the night and sent some of the whimpering dogs running.

Once his Court Sorcerer saw that everyone was safely behind him and the flames, the deadly serious and dangerous light left his eyes, and they only flickered with subtle hints of gold.

"_Ablinn,"_ he barked to the handful of the pack that remained outside the ring of fire.

The dogs, without so much as a sound or hateful glare (it was more a look of animalistic fear that lit their hellish eyes), lost their fighting and hunting spirit, and with their tails between their legs and ears flattened against their head, they left as the warlock commanded them, slipping into the shadows of the forest.

Not one of them dared to move for a full minute until Merlin, who had always had that strange sense of _knowing_ when danger stalked them, relaxed from his protective stance. With a few sharp words, a few sticks flew out of the forest, and intending to use them as torches, he lit their tips and handed one to Gwaine, Lancelot, and Kay before sweeping his hand in an arc, causing the wall of flames to dissipate into the night air.

It never failed to awe him. Merlin was always so decisive and calm after a battle, and he never lost his wits or his nerve. He did what needed to be done and did it without hesitation. It was one of his greatest attributes—his reliability and steadiness.

Knowing that Merlin would need some water to care for Sannan (Arthur guessed that must have been the reason), Lancelot rushed back in the direction of their camp, and once gone, his lanky friend, whose form was strangely blurred, ran to Arthur's side.

Merlin's words sounded like rushing ocean waves in his ear, so he wasn't prepared at all when Merlin's strong hands shoved his arm back into its socket. The hot whiplash of pain made him snap into focus, and over his panting, he heard the Court Sorcerer muttering apologies and saw his worried eyes flare gold.

The cool, refreshing feeling of healing magic laced up his arm and gathered in his shoulder, and with a calm, relaxed sigh, he said, "Thank you, Merlin."

"Of course, if I had gotten here sooner…"

Arthur opened his eyes to look directly into Merlin's, and he said forcefully, "Don't."

Merlin pursed his lips, and he asked, "How does it feel?"

Arthur hesitantly rolled his shoulder and found that it did not so much as twinge with remnants of pain, and he smiled at the warlock, who returned the smile and was immediately up and rushing to Sannan's side.

He was in very, very poor shape. He was shivering and hacking, and the sheen of sweat gleamed from his pale brow. Arthur, who had followed Merlin, cringed and gagged at the wound, which was already pussy and a poisonous green-yellow color. He had never seen a wound so infected and tainted, and he doubted that even Merlin could help the man.

Kay's other men, who were hovering over Sannan helplessly, stared at Merlin with a mixture of terror, surprise, and amazement, but they did not protest when he knelt by their comrade.

The injured moron, on the other hand, did.

"No, no! Get—get away from me," the man snarled weakly, trying to move himself away from Merlin.

"No. I don't think I will," he said cheekily. Lancelot returned at that moment with a water-skin, and he hurriedly set it beside Merlin, who nodded gratefully.

"_Sorcerer_," Sannan spat, more fear than contempt in his voice. "Stay away."

Merlin gave the man an exasperated look, and Arthur, Gwaine, Percival, and Lancelot all looked as though they wanted to smack him. "Do you _want_ to die? The Crocotta is a magical being. Its bite is poisonous, and if you don't let me treat you _now_, you'll be subjected to painful, horrifying hallucinations as your throat swells…slowly suffocating you to death. Not a pleasant way to go, I can assure you."

The man's eyes, glazed with delirium, fear, and pain, widened with each word, and Merlin said softly and soothingly, "I'm only trying to help."

Arthur could _not _believe that the man took so long with his internal battle, but in the end, his fear of death and pain outweighed his fear of magic. Once he received a small nod of submittal, Merlin broke eye-contact with the man, who left the conscious world once again, and set to work, rinsing the oozing bite and ripping at his own ruined tunic to wipe away some of the mess from the wound.

After noting that Merlin had begun to mentally and physically prepare himself for the intense and powerful healing spell he would need—Arthur could _see_ how powerful it was by Merlin's deep, meditative breathing and the luminous brightness of the gold color swirling in his eyes—he suggested quietly, "Let's give him some space. Lancelot, stay with him and give him light."

A concerned Lancelot only acknowledged Arthur with a brief look, and following the King's calm orders, Kay and Percival had to tug on a few of his men's arms to get them to move. They all stumbled away from the physician-warlock and Sannan, and keeping their torches handy, they sat as a group some meters away.

There were a few moments of blessed silence until the thrill of survivor's relief took its hold of Gwaine. "Do you gentleman realize," he said between insane giggles, "where the hell we'd be without Merlin?"

"In a Crocotta's stomach," Percival said humorlessly.

"That was about the damnedest thing I've ever seen," Kay whispered.

"He's powerful."

"No—well, that _was_ something—but what I mean is: he took one of those things—it appeared out of no where, leaping at me—he pushed me aside and fended it off himself. Alone."

Arthur and Percival exchanged a look, and Kay continued, shaking his head, "He hardly knows me, and I hardly know him. He just—"

"That's Merlin for you," the King began softly. "He's a selfless fool. He would do _anything _to protect his friends, Kay. Betray his trust or loyalty, cross him, or hurt someone he cares about, and you have made yourself one formidable enemy. Remember that."

"I can imagine," James, one of Kay's men, muttered, his eyes glued to the flickering torchlight.

The group fell into another silence, and an hour slipped away unnoticed before Merlin and Lancelot wearily joined them.

"He's going to make a full recovery," Merlin assured the group with a lopsided smile. That smile did not fool Arthur; he looked as though he was dead on his feet. "There are some herbs I want to get for him, so if you can—"

Without hesitation, Kay immediately sent James and Bryce, Sannan's older brother, to fetch the injured man so that they could carry him back to camp with them.

"Thank you, Kay," Merlin said.

Kay gave him a strange look. "You're thanking me? For what? I nearly got you killed, and you saved my hide."

Merlin grinned. "You seem to forget that you killed the second one before it knocked my head clean off. I'd say we're even."

Kay suddenly smiled, remembering that he had said the same words on the day he arrived in Camelot and "properly met" Merlin. "Even," he agreed.

~…~

When they reached camp and once Merlin forced some nasty concoction of his down Sannan's throat, Arthur pulled him away from his patient—the idiot was insistent that he remain awake until the wounded man woke up himself—said to him, "Sleep now, Merlin. You've done well. We'll watch him."

"No, I can—"

"Merlin," Arthur interrupted. "I _know _that that was no easy thing that you did—healing both of us! You told me that magical poisons are a lot harder to purge from the body, so don't you dare say otherwise. You've done your part, now stop being so damn stubborn. Sleep. You deserve it."

With an obstinate glare and reluctant sigh, Merlin did as he was told, and crawling into his bedroll, he muttered, "There'd better not be any more fun surprises. We've met our quota already."

"Quota?" Bryce asked. Arthur felt a small smile on his lips. He had overheard the young man thanking Merlin for saving his life and his brother's once they had entered camp, and he was just thrilled that one of Kay's men, all of whom had been cold towards the warlock since they first saw him, had a change of heart.

"Merlin's got this silly idea that for every journey we take outside of Camelot there's bound to be one time we're attacked by someone or something and nearly killed" Arthur joked, rolling his eyes.

"'S'not silly," Merlin mumbled, already half-asleep. "'S true."

"C'mon then, mate. Name the last time you've left Camelot and returned without being attacked," a snickering Gwaine challenged.

Arthur could not decide if it was more morbidly amusing or surprisingly pathetic that he could not think of a single time—well, not of a single time _after _Merlin stumbled into his life.

* * *

><p>*Sannan is a Welsh name meaning 'scared'. I thought it fit quite well.<p>

*Yes, that was indeed a Disney's Tangled reference :P (No, I don't own Tangled either)

Spells: _Ofsting- _stab, pierce; _Léoht_ (from 4x01)- light; _Bael on byrne _(from 4x01/4x02)- burn, blaze; _Ablinn- _leave, cease

AN: I hope this meets your approval, and I certainly hope that my action scene was not your usual 'Merlin-Arthur-getting-randomly-attacked-while-out-on-a-mission' scene. :P I avoided bandits and everything. LOL. Thank you so much for reading. :D

Oz out


	10. Assumptions

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: Hello, everyone! :D Thank you so much! I got over 100 reviews on this fic, and I'm so grateful to you all. :D

So this chapter is interesting and (please don't kill me), it's in **King Lot's POV**. It may not be as incredibly exciting as the last chapter, but I had ever so much fun playing around with dramatic irony (irony in which the audience/readers know what's going on but the character(s) have no clue). This chapter is one of the points I based this fic on. I have them listed in the first chappie, but if you don't remember: 1) Merlin BAMF. There has been little bits and pieces already, but the major BAMF is yet to come. 2) Whump, which IS coming up within the next few chapters...maybe even beginning the next one. ;) And 3) Looking at Merlin and Arthur's relationship/Arthur's decision to legalize magic through the eyes of a King from a different kingdom.

This chapter is base point #3, of course, and though it did not turn out the way I imagined, I'm happy with it anyway. :) Oh, and YES, Merlin and Arthur ARE in here. It's NOT Just Lot. :P

Below are quotes that apply to the whole fic, but I waited until this chapter to share them:

* * *

><p>" '<em>Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed to be unfortunate, but the hearts of men, when unprejudiced by any obvious self-interest, are full of brotherly love and charity. Rely, therefore, on your hopes; and if these friends are good and amiable, do not despair.' <em>

…

'_Unfortunately, they are prejudiced against me. I have good dispositions; my life has been hitherto harmless and in some degree beneficial; but a fatal prejudice clouds their eyes, and where they ought to see a feeling and kind friend, they behold only a detestable monster._'"

–De Lacey and Frankenstein's monster, Frankenstein (Mary Shelley)

* * *

><p><strong>Assumptions<strong>

It was completely coincidental that Lot happened to be brooding in front of the great arched window overlooking the main courtyard—even before being crowned, this was an activity he found himself doing often enough when he was stressed, needed some time to himself, or just wanted the chance to relax and daydream the day away—when the party from Camelot rode in. Completely coincidental.

At least, that was what he was trying to convince himself.

In truth, he was both excited for and wary about the upcoming discussions with Arthur Pendragon, and that reason was why it might or might not have been a coincidence that he was standing there to see the King of Camelot arriving.

His excitement was understandable. Their kingdoms had been at odds with each other for far too long. The bitter feelings originated in a time before the age in which Uther took the throne in Camelot, and there was no true documented history detailing _why_ the two kingdoms felt such bitterness towards each other. Of course, what must have been a minor disagreement escalated to full-blown hostility, which only got worse as Uther and Darryn, quickly followed by Cenred, clashed repeatedly.

Lot, ever since he was a lad, dreamt for the day that the pointless animosity would transform into solid friendship. Being half-Camelotian himself, he never understood why the two kingdoms did not put aside grievances and shake hands. Camelot and his kingdom, Escetia*, could profit greatly from each other in both land and human resources, after all. In his opinion, it was immensely stupid that a treaty hadn't been drawn before.

The young Pendragon was of the same opinion, obviously, and it was unfortunate that Uther had not been as logical as his son was proving to be. _In that respect_, he tacked on with a grimace.

Lot had loved Uther in the way a Lord should love his King. Lot did not focus on Uther's faults—yes, he would admit there were times when the man had made some reckless decisions that he did not agree with—and instead, he admired his strengths. He admired the man for his ability to make tricky decisions without flinching and for his capability to stare danger in the face with chillingly authoritative eyes. He admired the high standards he set for his Knights and the seriousness in which he took the defense and protection of his kingdom.

Lot had not minded risking his life to secretly serve Uther, and he had _enjoyed_ helping his kinsman Lord Ector, who had been just as wonderful a friend and advisor as Kay had become in the past few years, sneak information from under another King's nose. He felt as though he were working towards a greater good. He thought that Uther was the spark that could ignite the world, the force that could shift the tides, the one that could subdue evil and destroy corruption wherever it hid.

Arthur, on the other hand…While he himself had never met him, he _had_ heard of the young man's courage in battle (oh, had he heard!) and his benevolence and devotion to his people. He heard that in the realm of military genius and stubborn decisiveness and willfulness, he was indeed his father's son. That was enough for Lot to respect the young Pendragon and to hope to become not just an ally in arms but a dependable, trustworthy friend.

However, that was not enough for him to see past the fact that he had ravaged and ransacked Uther's greatest accomplishment like a greasy bandit would a farming village.

It was atrocious, what he had done. A disgrace. Uther would have been turning in his grave to hear that his son had allowed _magic _to return to Camelot. He felt his lip curl with bitter disapproval. Magic—the very reason he was wary about this meeting. Very wary.

Lot's feelings towards sorcery were…harsh. He wasn't ashamed to say that he had some fear of magic, but his steadfast belief that it did not belong in their world overpowered that fear.

Whatever it was that made magic flow through a sorcerer's veins, the unknown _source _of that magic…couldn't it be a source that could easily backfire and corrupt, overpower, and alter any ounce of innate goodness left in a sorcerer or Druid? That unknown and the strength of the power that unknown possessed…that was what was dangerous. _Men should not hold that power within themselves, _he hissed to himself._ It is something for the gods and the gods alone._

A bubbling hot revulsion boiled in the pit of his stomach at the thought of the horrific unnaturalness of it. Yes, he and Uther were of one mind when it came to magic—it should not exist and should never have had existed.

He was willing to _try _to push it all away for the sake of Escetia. He couldn't possibly tell Pendragon how to rule his kingdom nor could he openly protest until something extreme happened, so he would have to accept Camelot as it was—legal magic and all. He knew that this might lead to intense controversy between them during the discussions, but his strive for a better future, a future in which Camelot was an ally and not an enemy, and Arthur's definite determination for the same future would surely lead to success. In this respect, he was incredibly hopeful.

No matter the differing opinions, he had barely a doubt that it would work out. There was one factor, nevertheless, that worried him.

Predictably, Merlin Emrys would be traveling with his King, and Lot already found himself stewing and simmering with loathing and foresaw flying insults and hot tempers, which was something he did not want to have to deal with during these negotiations.

But, despite Lot's standpoint, his wariness, his loathing… despite himself, he could not help but feel the faintest glimmer of unwelcome curiosity.

Who was this man who inspired the young Pendragon to overturn his father's anti-magic legacy? Who had such an influence over him? Who supposedly had an incomparable and unbendable loyalty to his King and kingdom? Whose actions supposedly prevented the suffering of many and the destruction of Camelot a few times over? Who had supposedly protected the men who wanted him dead, all the while hiding in the shadows, right under the very same men's noses? Who supposedly had been _born _with magic?

This made an angered Lot cringe—even among the unnatural this Merlin Emrys was an oddity, and tales of his power betrayed just how different he was. Another swoop of repulsion washed over him at the thought of it. Yet, just as Lord Kay, who had expressed a surprising amount of enthusiasm and almost…_amusement_ (after the initial confusion and shock, of course) at the prospect of meeting the man, at the base of it all there was still that uncertain level of curiosity.

The sorcerer was something of a perplexing enigma, and though Lot questioned the veracity of the tales spreading through and enrapturing the Five Kingdoms, as much as he wished he could deny it, there was something almost _endearing _about the man they portrayed. For this reason, Lot was, against his better judgment, trying—really trying—to find it in himself to give Arthur's Court Sorcerer a chance. But prejudice was a powerful thing, and it seemed to be a lost battle before the fighting had even begun.

So, all in all, with these conflicting thoughts on mind and with the obsessive recurrence of those thoughts, it was quite hard to convince anyone that it was _not _coincidence that he was watching the courtyard as the party from Camelot arrived.

Lot prided himself in being a systematical thinker, and his careful, laborious calculations had never failed him: more or less, they were right on target.

So, when Lot had imagined his first reaction upon seeing the group to be relief that they had finally arrived, exasperation at the rather slow speed at which they traveled, and the ever-present glimmer of satisfaction, he expected to feel exactly that.

But he did not. Whatever he had been expecting, it was not this intense bewilderment.

Why was the Pendragon's retinue so _small_? Lot could easily see the blonde head of King Arthur, who was leading the trudging, weary group with Kay at his side. Behind them rode three figures cloaked in the scarlet of Camelot, signifying that they were knights, and on their tail, a black-haired boy, sitting on his horse with the wavering grace of a thin willow reed and wearing the shabby, neutral-colored brown jacket of a servant, followed. In total, Arthur had only brought four people with him.

And one of these was not even his Court Sorcerer. Rumor had it that Merlin Emrys was _very _attached to wearing a dark cloak and that he wore it everywhere he went, rain or shine, and since none of the men were wearing said cloak, it was deducible that he was not among them.

A surge of relief spread through him and was accompanied by an unwanted trickle of disappointment, which only grew larger when he noted that Queen Guinevere, whom he had been actually looking forward to meeting, was not among them either.

_Did he just…no, he can't have! _Lot thought in shock. But what other explanation was there? He must have left her behind in Camelot, and the Escetian King officially thought that, based on that risky decision to leave his inexperienced Queen home, the decision to bring an abnormally small group with him, and the decision to return magic to his kingdom combined, Arthur Pendragon was absolutely mad.

_Great_, he thought sarcastically.

His dark jade eyes scanned over the rest of the group, which consisted of the men he sent to Camelot, and as the Pendragon's servant inelegantly dismounted his horse and as the others followed in suit, Lot watched their interactions, searching for and trying to discern his own men's thoughts and feelings toward…wait. Scratching at his grizzled, salt-and-pepper beard, he frowned.

_Where—where the devil was Sannan?_

Immediately, Lot, knowing that the two brothers were inseparable, searched for Bryce, and he was disturbed and distressed to see that he too was nowhere to be seen. Concern for his two young council members instantly hit him with the force of a jousting lance, and his heart froze with worry. Had they been left behind? Or worse? Attacked? _Dead? _

The patter of approaching footsteps distracted him, and he turned expectantly and hopefully to see a servant, the same servant Kay had sent ahead with his message a week prior, turn in from a different corridor. The boy bowed his head respectfully as he jolted to a stop before him.

"My Lord," he said breathlessly. "King Arthur Pendragon has arrived."

Lot grumbled an impatient sigh, and he gave the boy a forced smile.

"They ran into some trouble during their travels," he added, not noticing Lot's impatience, "Lord Sannan was injured—to what extent, I am unsure, but I believe he is alright. Lord Bryce and he returned a few minutes ago to get treatment from the Court Physician. They said nothing else."

Lot nodded slowly, his panic fading with the news that both Bryce and Sannan were safe and sound, and soft sweep of sheepishness replaced the crazed panic. He must have been very deep in thought not to have noticed the brothers riding in earlier than the larger party.

With a lazy wave of his hand, Lot gestured for the servant to follow him, and the boy trotted obediently behind the King as he traversed the wide hall and began to walk to the courtyard to welcome the Camelotians.

He prepared himself methodically, taking one deep, calming breath, and then, when he felt he was composed and ready to meet Pendragon, he let his mind, which was at peace for the first time since the day he was crowned, drift contentedly.

It felt great to be home again. In the month that passed since Cenred's death, Lot had been one of many nobles to advocate that the kingdom's capital be moved back to the Castle Livandir*, which was had been the home of Escetia's ancient kings for centuries and was the very heart of Escetia both geographically and emotionally, before Cenred settled into Castle Fyrien. Given Cenred's plots and dark dreams, moving to Fyrien had been clever, seeing as it was much closer to Camelot's borders than Livandir, but Lot, like many others who longed for their traditional home and who were sick of the damnable dreary, crumbling walls of Fyrien, could not stand remaining a second longer. They had spent the next months relocating and had only just finished in time for his coronation. Thus, Lot was joyfully crowned in the place he belonged and was now proud master of beloved Livandir.

And none of it could have been accomplished without his cousin.

He was immensely grateful that he had Kay by his side during it all. The young man, though his opponent in the running to become King, was with him every step of the way. They advised each other and supported the other before the people made their decision, during the wait for the decision to be made, and after the decision had been made, and there was never a trace of resentment or jealousy from either of them. Not even when Lot had been the chosen one.

Of course, he was too busy glorifying in his victory to notice if there really _was _any resentment or jealousy underneath the congratulations, subtle hints of inevitable disappointment, and broad smiles.

Not that he suspected Kay for hiding his true, less than noble feelings at all. Though twenty years his junior and though sometimes immature and rash, Lot could not have asked for a better man to be his Royal Advisor.

But there was his strange and sudden interest in magic…

The only warning he had before he painfully collided with an unknown someone was the sight of door flying open in the corner of his peripheral vision.

Lot's breath was knocked from him with a deep grunt, and he stumbled sideways. The one who so rudely ran into him, however, ricocheted off of Lot, who may have been short, but had a burly, stocky build, and was sent sprawling to the floor with a loud "_oomph_."

With a sizzling irritation and a burning face, Lot recovered more quickly than the man who had burst from the Court Physician's chambers, and in recognition of the unruly raven-haired head, he saw that the offender was none other than Arthur's servant.

Lot's anger faltered for a moment as he got his first close look at the manservant. His face was turned from Lot, but the Escetian King, with a wrinkled nose, did not miss the fact that some of the locks on the back of his head were stiff and sticky with some mystery substance, probably mud and debris from the woods. He was thinner and lankier than Lot had first believed when he saw him from above, and the King noticed that his clothes…

He might have been wearing the style of a peasant—dark, slightly oversized trousers, red tunic, nondescript jacket, horrendous blue neckerchief—but his clothes, not mentioning his noticeably worn boots, were not the threadbare or shabby clothes of a poor man. They were of a surprisingly fine make. In fact, with the cut of the neckline of his tunic and the richness of the materials, the clothes were acceptable enough for a _nobleman_ to get away with wearing on a less formal occasion.

On a servant's salary, however, the young man should not have been able to afford such expensive attire.

_Nor should he be allowed to wear it_, Lot thought, bristling.

He was a _servant_! He obviously did not have the money for such extravagances, so it was only logical to assume that the Pendragon bought them for him, a fact that had Lot both confused and horrified.

Why would he waste so much money on his _servant_? Itwas unwarranted and inappropriate, and to say that Lot did not approve was a bit of an understatement.

Lot's opinion of King Arthur was steadily slipping with each passing second.

The young man was rubbing his head, an action which only made his hair _more _unruly, if that was even possible, and with a sheepish, humble smile on his lips, the servant, not yet looking up or picking himself up from the ground, began to say with a bit of an embarrassed amusement, "I—"

He didn't get a chance to finish his apology. Lot grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and forcibly pulled him up to his feet.

"You _fool_!" Lot growled angrily. "Are you clumsy, or are you just plain _stupid_?"

Kay's servant flinched at the harsh tone as though he had been struck, but shockingly, the other servant showed no sign of uneasiness. He merely looked up and met Lot's jade eyes for the first time. His eyes were a strange color, a dark, clear stormy blue, and they, at first, were flashing with resigned frustration and stubbornness. In fact, Lot had a brief notion that the servant meant to caustically retort, but upon seeing Lot, instead of dimming in fear and obedience in the King's presence, they brightened with a subtle hint impish—his whole facial structure was very elfish, Lot noticed, particularly with the high, sharp set of cheekbones, one of which sported a thin scar—insolence and amusement. Swirling there, behind it all, was something that Lot couldn't place, and it unnerved him.

"I must be both, my Lord," the servant deadpanned. The corners of his mouth, much to Lot's infuriation, twitched upwards.

"Do you think this is _funny, _boy?"

"Forgive me, Sire," Arthur's manservant said, pursing his lips. Lot was startled to hear that he did not have a thick Camelotian accent but one with a burr of the lilting Escetian accent. "I did not see you." His tone was polite and courteous, but Lot detected the subtlest trace of sarcasm, which made his eyes narrow suspiciously and nostrils flare wrathfully.

He had to be careful here. Punishing the boy himself would insult the Pendragon, so he settled for threatening, "You'd better learn to watch where you're going, or we'll soon be seeing your head in the stocks. Do you understand me?"

The young man did not react for a long time, the most peculiar expression on his face, and when he finally nodded, eyes dancing with good-natured humor, Lot, suddenly feeling very disconcerted by those multifaceted eyes, released the back of his shirt.

"Get back to your master." Turning to Kay's servant, who was cowering behind with wide eyes, he added gruffly, "Go with him."

For some reason, the boy looked terrified at the prospect of walking alone with the Camelotian servant, but the older servant, the perfect picture of innocent and cheerful friendliness, grinned lopsidedly, causing Kay's boy to give a weak smile in return and to hesitantly follow as he darted away.

Watching them go with quelled discomfort, his gaze flickered to his physician's chamber's door, where Lords Sannan and Bryce were now sitting and where Nellie was now bustling to prepare something for Sannan's injury. It was all too tempting to see to his men first…to talk with them, but he could not keep Pendragon waiting any longer.

With one last regretful look at the door, Lot continued his speedy walk to the courtyard, and once he violently pushed away the vision of the eerie, sparkling light in that clumsy fool's eyes and after he shook away the unexpected shudder that possessed him, he only had one question on his mind: what had Arthur's servant been doing in his physician's rooms?

The question occupied his thoughts the rest of the way for one reason only—there was little need for the servant to visit the physician's chambers so abruptly after his arrival. Judging from his lankiness, it was safe to assume that the thin man was no warrior (the only sign that he had ever fought anyone was the pearly white scar across his cheekbone), and he was up and about with no sign of injury or illness. However, there was something Lot was missing, and being the type of man to _never_ miss things, it bothered him like no other and made his mind and stomach feel as though they were tumbling uncontrollably over themselves.

In the entrance hall, servants, carrying packs and small chests of clothes from the visitors to put into their assigned chambers, moved in a flurry around him and bowed their heads as he passed. The pile of items stacked was ebbing away as the last things were brought from the horses and as the other servants took them away. Arthur's insolent servant himself was handing off a bag and muttering the name of the specific person it belonged to before he ran back out the huge double doors and back into the bright sunlight.

Mentally collecting himself once again, Lot followed out the doors, and after blinking rapidly to accommodate the intense brightness, he sought out the Pendragon, who was irritatingly in conversation with the idiot servant and _laughing_. The only one of his men still in sight was Kay, and he too was laughing.

Ironically enough, the servant was the first to see Lot, who was struggling to repress an expression of disdain from his face, descending the few steps to greet them, and with a mischievous grin, he took Arthur's horse, handed it off to a stable boy, and, after checking to see that his other companions were unpacked, finally began to take care of his own horse and belongings, which consisted of only a bedroll and two bulging knapsacks.

Arthur Pendragon, shaking his head slightly and chuckling at some unknown joke as his manservant walked away into the stables, finally noticed that Lot was approaching, and the change in countenance was instantaneous. While the fond smirk dropped and was replaced with a straight-faced seriousness, the jovial, sarcastic sapphire eyes hardened with professionalism and a familiar satisfaction and eagerness. There was an aura of power around him—and hope.

All the good things he had head about the Pendragon were confirmed before him in that one moment, and as much as he wished to say he hated the man who disappointed him so with the way he ran his kingdom, he could not help but immediately like him.

"King Arthur," Lot greeted, surprising himself with a genuine smile and extending a hand. "Welcome to Livandir."

Arthur smiled in response and gripped Lot's arm firmly. "King Lot. It is a pleasure, and thank you. The city is breathtaking."

Kay suddenly appeared and removed himself from Arthur's side to his own with a quirky grin and fond whisper of, "Hello, cousin. You missed a hell of a time, let me tell you."

Before Lot could turn to question him or express the flare of interest, Arthur was speaking again. "These are my Knights and councilors, my Lord."

He had heard of these Knights—the _commoners_—but they were not anything like he expected…well, truth be told, he did not know _what _to expect. Sir Percival was a giant of a man, but he had gentle eyes and a soft smile. While Sir Lancelot was dark and quietly observational, Sir Gwaine, though he had the same dark hair and eyes as Lancelot, was lively and restless, a definite troublemaker and jester.

"You're welcome, all of you," Lot said, already sick of the pleasantries. Arthur seemed to feel similarly.

"I'm sorry that I could not make it to your coronation," he apologized sincerely. "Congratulations."

Lot's face brightened. "Ah, I think congratulations are in order to you as well. How _is _Queen Guinevere? I'm surprised she is not here with you."

Arthur shook his blonde head, his eyes softening. "She is well. We made the decision to let her remain in Camelot. I thought that it would be the best opportunity for her to learn to be independent of me and learn confidence. She has the senior councilors to help her, and I'm sure she'll make us all proud."

Jade eyes betrayed his shock. As risky as that was for both his new Queen and his kingdom, the decision was obviously well thought out. Clever, even.

"And your Court Sorcerer?" he blurted.

Arthur gave him a strange look. "Pardon?" he asked, startled.

Lot blinked with a pang of embarrassment, and wincing imperceptibly at the subject that he had unwillingly brought up, he explained, "Merlin Emrys. He is not here with you either."

While Arthur blinked in confusion, he saw Kay's raised eyebrow from the corner of his eye and noticed that the Knights carefully avoided looking at each other and restrained smiles. Again, that feeling that he was missing something poked annoyingly at him.

Recovering quickly, with one part caution and three parts pride and optimism, Pendragon said, "He did ride with us, my Lord."

"_Did _he?" Lot's eyebrows rose to his hairline, and a waterfall of panicked surprise and then loathing crashed upon him.

Arthur nodded absently and searched around him. "Where'd he run off to?" he muttered, frowning. "Ah, there he is."

Lot followed the line of Pendragon's finger to see that he was pointing at his strange manservant, who was ducking out of the stables with his knapsacks.

The very same manservant who had collided with him in the corridor outside Nellie's chambers.

The very one he insulted and threatened to put in the stocks.

…_What the hell? _

Propriety, composure, and control be damned! His eyes widened and mouth gaped like a speared fish. "Your _servant_?" Lot yelped, his mind rejecting the truth in disbelief.

"By his will, not mine," Arthur joked with some amusement. "That's how he is." He turned to Lot once again, caught the look on his face, and frowned. "Oh gods. What did he do?"

"I—I threatened to put him in the stocks," Lot admitted in a dazed, hoarse whisper, still staring at the servant-turned-warlock. It—it couldn't be… "He—He…we ran into each other in the corridor."

Arthur's Knights laughed, and the King himself, grinning dryly, said, "Literally, I take it. That clumsy idiot. Way to make a first impression."

"Ah, that's nothing. You should've seen how he first greeted me, Lot," Kay joked with a bark of laughter. "He called me a pheasant."

"A…pheasant?" Lot repeated slowly. He was still struggling to readjust his _entire _perception, which was throwing him off balance in the cruelest of ways.

"He didn't insult you, did he?" Arthur asked in a stern tone, the gleam in his sky-blue eyes making Lot believe that the young man was going to get an earful when they were alone.

"Insult who, Arthur?"

Lot jumped at the sound of the amused voice and turned to see the young man with tousled black hair and the odd eyes, now crinkled at the corners to compliment his goofy smile, approach from behind the Pendragon. "I heard 'that clumsy idiot' and assumed you wanted me?" he teased cheekily.

At the sound of that insolent tone, Lot snapped back into reality with a jolt of contempt, and he found himself again. Some of the stories—the stories about Merlin Emrys' temperament and bizarre ways—fit, and those unwavering eyes were too unnatural to be anything but _his. _This strange man, who seemed to take no offense whatsoever to being called a 'clumsy idiot' (in fact, it appeared to be a familiar insult to the sorcerer, who, Lot was abruptly and painfully aware, could blast them to pieces with his magic if he so chose) _was _the sorcererMerlin Emrys—how could he have not seen it?

He, powerful or no, would pay dearly for making him look a fool.

"I heard you had a run-in with King Lot, Merlin," Arthur said suspiciously, an eyebrow raised.

Though he had correctly shifted his skewed vision, a cold hand grasped at his heart at the name, and he felt his lips curling upward with a renewed hatred. Whatever rumors he had heard about this man's greatness, his mysterious ways and his bravery…they did not matter. How could this idiotic _twig_ of a man be the same man so revered and admired in the tales?

Merlin held up his hands defensively, chuckling. "It wasan accident, Arthur. I didn't just _crash _into him because I felt like it. Besides what does it matter when _I_ was the one who ended up on the floor?"

Rolling his eyes in vexation, Pendragon snapped, "You're impossible, Merlin! You can hardly take a step without causing a catastrophe. Perhaps you do deserve time in the stocks, just to keep people safe from _you_."

A diabolical-looking grin spread across the sorcerer-servant's face. "Arthur, I thought we established long ago that the stocks do nothing for me. It can be a pain in the arse when I have better things to do, but it's actually good fun, in a way—getting pelted with rotten fruit. And," he added slyly, "a lot of good it'll do them when I can always pelt them back."

"I'd pay to see that, mate," Sir Gwaine laughed.

Lancelot, the knight Lot had assumed was the most quiet, serious, and levelheaded of the Camelotians, joined in, joking, "As long as _I_'m not the one getting magic'd fruit all over me."

_Good gods! _Lot yelled to himself. _They…what? _

There was something _very _wrong with them, _all _of them. Did they not know who he was and where they were? Did they not realize that this was a momentous occasion in history? That this was a professional political endeavor?

And yet there they stood, teasing each other like _children_.

'Men of legend'? Bah! A mad King, his mad Knights, _and _his mad sorcerer…what in the world was he going to do?

If he knew these men better, if he held one ounce of belief in the flying rumors, if he was as logical and calculative as he liked to say he was…he would have known better and instead toyed about with this worrying question: what could possibly go wrong?

"I wouldn't count on that, Lance, seeing how poor his aim is," Sir Percival quipped with a wink.

"Thanks for reminding me," Arthur said, grinning evilly. "We need to work on that, Merlin."

Turning to Lot with a roll of his eyes, the sorcerer gave him a sickeningly cheery smile, and said, "Complete prat, isn't he? I save his life, and he still complains."

"_Mer_lin—" Arthur warned in a deadly tone.

The sorcerer, who Lot was now convinced was the maddest of them all, ignored him. "Perhaps we should try again, my Lord. I'm Merlin."

Lot sniffed, reluctantly shook hands with the sorcerer, and withdrew his hand as though he had been burnt on a cauldron or as though he was afraid that the sorcerer was carrying a contagious disease. The sorcerer himself _was _a disease: he wouldn't be surprised if touching him _did_ get him sick.

"Merlin Emrys," he said coldly, thinly veiled distaste and hostility coloring his tone.

If the sorcerer noticed, he gave no sign, though the Knights surrounding him did. He even felt Kay's frown on his back, and Lot, appalled, wondered bitterly what it was about the sorcerer that encouraged these men to _care_ for him with so high a level of compassion and defensiveness.

The King was a little better at hiding his emotions, but the level of protectiveness in his observant gaze was beyond anything he expected. He realized then, much to his disgust, that the pair meant more to each other than Lot had ever guessed or _could've_ guessed.

"Just Merlin, please, King Lot," the sorcerer corrected. Lot stiffened at the sound of his name being used, even with the title, so casually by an _anomaly_ of nature.

Sir Gwaine drew his arm around the warlock's thin shoulders and said smoothly, "It's thanks to Merlin here that we even made it here…Sire."

The respectful address seemed to be tacked on carelessly and sounded foreign on the man's tongue, and Lot cocked an eyebrow. "Really," he said in the same cold tone.

"He saved us all, Lot," Kay added helpfully. "Hell, Sannan would have died if it weren't for Merlin."

"It was nothing," Merlin said with a modesty that Lot was certain was false.

The King couldn't be sure, but he heard Sir Percival mutter something to Sir Lancelot that sounded a lot like, "Nothing? He slept for _twelve _hours after that! _Nothing, _my ass."

Ignoring the Knights and the seemingly out-of-place comment, the Escetian King scoffed, "What do you know of the physician's craft?"

He glared mockingly at the warlock, who, frustratingly enough, did not so much as blink under the intimidating, piercing gaze. Lot did not appreciate the fact that the sorcerer was taller than he was and that he had to look up to meet those strange, clear eyes.

"Merlin has been Gaius'—sorry—our Court Physician's ward and assistant for years," Arthur said, his voice calm despite the offensive disbelief and derision in Lot's voice. "He is just as capable as his mentor in medicine and herblore."

"I… stand corrected," Lot grudgingly admitted. He might feel nothing but contempt for the man, but he knew that he owed him something for the safety of his men. "I apologize…Merlin. I suppose I should thank you," he continued through clenched teeth, "for helping Sannan and bringing my men home."

Merlin nodded, accepting the halfhearted apology and thank you. Suddenly, a change came over him. Once goofy and cheeky, he stood before Lot with a severe determination and knowledge in his eyes. "Speaking of Sannan, I must go help Nellie. I told her to prepare something to help with the burning and itching, but I'd prefer to change the bandages myself."

He was looking to _Arthur _for permission, and the Camelotian King and his warlock met eyes, an unreadable message passing between the two (it was so…wrong, so strange, so unnatural that the son of Uther Pendragon and a monster in the guise of a human could have such a strong connection), and Lot, just before the sorcerer rushed off to his physician, came to a sudden revelation and grabbed his arm violently.

Merlin Emrys tensed at the contact, but he calmly and inquisitively said, "Sire?"

"Did you use it when treating Sannan?" he spat.

"_It_?" Merlin asked, his face emotionless. "You mean _magic_?"

Lot flinched at the word, and Merlin, eyes flashing with something the prejudiced King could not describe or understand, explained clearly, "The beasts that attacked us were magical, and their bites poisonous. Magical poisons can only be purged with magic, my Lord. Sannan was very lucky that it was a clean, grazing bite and did not get infected and that it missed the major veins in his arm. Otherwise, even I wouldn't have been able to do anything to save him from the poison, and even still, he is lucky to be alive."

For a moment, Lot was dumbstruck, and he said, "Sannan _let_ you do this? I don't believe it for a second."

Merlin sighed, and with a hint of that bizarre humor returning to him, he said, "Believe what you wish, Sire, but I need hardly tell you that you should not assume anything. Assumptions are made blind and only cause blindness."

Taken aback by the bluntness of the advice, Lot released his bony arm jerkily, and he glared at the deceptive warlock, who had, for a moment, sounded almost _wise_. Merlin, with a smile that showed no sign of accusation or enmity towards him, turned and sauntered gawkily into the castle, heading for the physician's chambers.

"I would apologize for his behavior," Arthur said sheepishly, breaking the silence that had followed the servant-sorcerer's departure, "but I'm just as much at fault as he. And it'll end up being a meaningless apology."

_He is honest,_ Lot thought, both pleased and a bit surprised. He studied the Pendragon for a moment, seeing the willful spirit of Uther staring back at him and noticing for the first time that the neighboring King was studying him as relentlessly as he was him.

Lot waved away the comment, and he said, "You have nothing to apologize for, Sire." This was true enough: he might have had already made up his mind about Merlin Emrys (despite the guilty part of him reminding him that the sorcerer had saved Sannan's life with magic and no doubt the _entire _groups' lives), but he decided to wait to pass judgment on his fellow ruler.

Of course, first impressions are everything, and since Lot's first impression was weighed half-good-half-bad, he hoped that he was wrong about the bad—for the sake of their kingdoms.

"Come," he said hospitably, "I'll have servants show you to your chambers. I'm sure you would like a chance to clean up and rest before dinner, Arthur." The use of his first name without a title did not go unnoticed by the other King, who smiled with some relief at the sign of friendship Lot was extending to him. "I will send for you in two hours, and we can begin the negotiations."

"Thank you, Lot," Arthur said gratefully.

With a snap of his fingers (the Camelotian King looked astonished at the gesture and the immediate response), two maidservants appeared and obediently led them away. As they went, Lot listened to the one called Gwaine chatter away about nice baths and about how to get a certain sorcerer to make it to dinner on time…

"Why so grim, Lot?" Kay asked teasingly.

Lot relented to a smile, and he turned to his younger cousin and his friend. "You think highly of them all, don't you?" he asked quietly.

Kay ran his hand through his ginger-blonde hair, which looked like copper wire in the sunlight. It was a habit Lot could not stand, and just as he was about tell him off, Kay answered, "Yes. Particularly Merlin."

Lot grunted, and his lip curled again. Kay noticed, and with a sigh, he said, "You obviously do not approve."

"No, I don't."

"Not even if I told you he threw himself in front of a defenseless man to protect him from a giant, man-eating mutt and stood his ground when it charged at him?" Kay asked innocently.

Lot turned in shock. "You?"

"Does it matter who?" Kay asked cunningly, eyes dancing.

Lot did not know how to respond to that, and after a few seconds of opening and closing his mouth uselessly, he stopped attempting and grumbled incoherently.

Kay's wide-set teal eyes scanned his face thoughtfully. "What _do _you think of him? Truly? Ignoring prejudice—no, don't you deny it, Lot!" Lot had just opened his mouth to defend himself only to purse his lips at Kay's interjection. Satisfied that he wouldn't be interrupted, Kay repeated, "Ignoring prejudice, what do you truly think of Merlin?"

Lot rubbed his grizzled beard, jade eyes gazing off into the distance, unsure of how to respond. Unwittingly, Lot's prejudice was already revolting against all good thoughts he might have had about the sorcerer and morphing them into something hideously untrue, but eventually, he found one thing he could say truthfully.

"Neither he nor his King was what I expected."

Kay's grin became wry. "No, both of them aren't what you'd expect, so I wouldn't worry about offending either of them, Lot, especially Merlin. I honestly don't think anything offends him."

Lot snorted, shaking his head at Kay's ability to read his mind. "After that frosty reception I gave him—"

"That's exactly it," Kay interrupted. "He's going to be himself whether you agree or not."

"That's what worries me," Lot muttered.

Kay chuckled, "Well, you shouldn't worry. I know he doesn't want to force you to change your opinion of him. I'm sure that'll happen on its own. It did for Bryce and Sannan. And his magic—it's incredible really, when you see it."

Lot's thick eyebrows furrowed. "You know a lot about him."

"Not really," Kay admitted, "But I know enough."

"Do you know enough to think that we'll get through these discussions without ripping each other's throats out?" he asked sarcastically.

"You mean you ripping _Merlin_'sthroat out? Or Arthur ripping out _yours_ for your attitude towards Merlin?" Kay joked. Seeing Lot's exasperated face, he sobered, and said seriously, "Look, Lot. I can promise you by the time these discussions are over, you'll have a completely different opinion of both Arthur and Merlin."

Somehow, his cousin's promise did not reassure him, and he said, "I hope you're right, Kay. I don't want to become enemies over _magic_—" he spat the word "—when we can be such good allies ignoring it."

"It'll be impossible to ignore, my friend," Kay said softly, "But I assure you, I am right. You'll see."

~...~

Just outside the city walls, men swaddled in shadows waited.

* * *

><p>*Escetia is what a lot of other fans use to name CenredLot's kingdom, but I don't think that is what it's called. On the map of Albion that they drew up, Cenred's kingdom is literally labeled 'Cenred's Kingdom', and I honestly believe that the confusion originates from the "Forest of Essetir," which is NEAR Cenred's kingdom. So, I'm only using Escetia because I'm sick of saying 'Lot's Kingdom'.

*Castle Livandir is completely made up, and if its name has any relation to a real place, it's coincidental.

AN: Lol, that last line was spontaneously added at the very last second...very short, nice (and obvious *rolls eyes at self*) teaser, don't you think? ;) Anyway, I hope that this wasn't TOO boring, and I hope Lot is a well-developed OC. As always, sorry about my mistakes. :)

I'm sorry to say that I will not be getting another chapter up on time next weekend: I'm getting re-certified as a lifeguard and have to spend all weekend retaking the class I already took. :( Oh well; optimistically thinking, it'll be beneficial to touch up on the skills. ;)

Have a great week, all! (If you haven't seen the Hunger Games, yet, by the way, do so! It was one of the best movies I've seen in awhile.) Oz out.


	11. Sanity and Insanity

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: Happy Easter, everyone. I hope you all enjoyed the holiday whether you celebrate or not! :D

O...k. This is a **long** one, guys, with lots of stuff in it. It starts off slow...like a filler chapter, but it DEFINITELY picks up by the end. ;) Some mysteries are answered and some grow. I got my whump in, and so the major conflict begins. Beware of the cliff hanger. :P

I'd like to extend a big thank you to ForIHaveOvercomeTheWorld, who helped me tremendously in a little brainstorming pm conversation we had a long while ago. This wouldn't have come out as brilliantly as I think it did without your help, and I thank you. I can only hope my whump is as amazing as yours is. :) And I want to apologize for not upholding my end of our deal. ;) Well, better late than never, right?

Another warning: AP tests are coming up for me (beginning of May), and I'm starting to freak out a little. There might be one update before then, but for the most part, I will need to start studying fiercely. PLEASE, please do not beg me to update faster because I will feel bad and do so when I SHOULD be forcing myself to study. :) I promise that after these tests, things will pick up dramatically because my classes will die down and homework will be significantly more bearable. Thank you.

I apologize for all mistakes. So with that, enjoy, and have at it:

* * *

><p><strong>Sanity and Insanity<strong>

"That is impossible," the woman beside him breathed.

Merlin's gaze flickered from his patient, who was slumbering fitfully, to the portly Court Physician hovering behind him. Her graying braid, with its crazy, frizzy fly-away hairs, swept across her shoulder as she leaned around him to see the young nobleman's wound, and her unique, dual-colored eyes (one was green and the other brown) were wide with awe at the sight of the bite, which looked as though it had been healing and scabbing for at least a week.

When Merlin had barged into her rooms just minutes after Bryce had helped Sannan in, Nellie had received him with narrow-eyed skepticism and the inevitable red-faced irritation and protectiveness of a physician who does not want the injured to be disturbed. But, once he and Bryce had explained the situation, and once Merlin revealed that he was Gaius' (judging from her reaction, his mentor was very well-known by those who practiced medicine) ward and assistant, she stopped scolding him, realized who exactly he was, and, instead of growing afraid and nervous of him, adopted a sweet, motherly smile and allowed him to take control without complaint and with many inquiries about him, Gaius, and magical healing. Apparently, she, much like his uncle, had been a novice practitioner, and though she had never gotten very far in her secret magical studies, she knew enough simple healing and enhancing spells to get by…but not enough to quench her curiosity and zeal for the subject.

Needless to say, Merlin took to her as quickly as she did him.

Bryce had been fidgeting around restlessly while Merlin removed the soiled bandages on his brother's arm, trying to stay out of the warlock's way. However, when Nellie gasped, he immediately brushed her aside, crowded Merlin, and yelped in panic, "What? What's wrong with—?"

Sannan's brother cut off abruptly, and staring, he whispered, "Damn." Light brown eyes tore themselves away from Sannan and met Merlin's eyes with gratitude and respect.

"Damn is right," Nellie said softly, handing Merlin the full mortar of balm he had asked her to prepare for him before he left to help unpack their things...and before he ran directly into King Lot.

"It's a miracle that he even managed to get the poison out," she gushed excitedly. "Crocotta bites are no trifling wounds, and those mutts' poison is tricky and fast-acting… Yes, very tricky, but not impossible to cure with the right spells, a decent amount of power, and knowledge. However, the fact you're even _conscious _after such an effort…"

Merlin flushed a vibrant red, and humbly trying to turn the conversation away from him, he began, "It—"

Bryce was shaking his head in awe, and Merlin was interrupted with, "That's what King Arthur was telling me."

The amazed light in the nobleman's eyes indicated that he was now very much aware of how powerful Merlin was, and he continued, "I mean, they all explained how much you must have done, Merlin, and how much effort it took, judging by how long you slept…But_ this_?"

He gestured towards his brother, his tone signifying that he had not expected the warlock to be able to do so much after extracting the poison, a feat that the Court Sorcerer would admit took _a lot _out of him. Even with the half-day's worth of sleep, Merlin still felt as though his energy had not yet been replenished. The _sóþwundor, _which had not been removed from his person since Arthur had given it to him, seemed to beckon to him with its now-familiar, faint brush against his mind, and he vaguely wondered whether or not it was worth it to spoil himself with some of its seemingly endless store of energy before the taxing dinner he was about to subject himself to…

Shoving that unappealing thought away, Merlin began, "Really, Bryce—"

Ignoring the blushing warlock once again, Bryce said softly, "I—I don't know how I—no, how _any _of us can ever repay you, Merlin. Especially when we weren't exactly…"

Merlin smiled modestly at him as he trailed off, and he reassured the ashamed young noble, "You don't owe me anything, Bryce, and neither does Sannan."

At the sound of his name, Sannan shifted in his bunk, and awakening, he inhaled heavily and squeezed his eyes shut before blearily blinking them open. The weary warlock sighed: he had hoped that the combative nobleman would stay asleep while he was treating him to avoid riling him up and to avoid conflict altogether, but it appeared that that wasn't going to happen.

"San?" Bryce asked with such a fond, fraternal tone Merlin couldn't help but smile. "How're you feeling?"

Sannan, still disoriented, groaned with fatigue, winced in discomfort when he moved his arm, and absentmindedly reached his hand across his chest to scratch at the scabbing wound only to be slapped on the wrist by a quick Merlin.

"Oi!" the arrogant man whined, fully awake now. The fire in his eyes died as they settled on Merlin.

"Don't scratch," the warlock chided. He dipped his fingers into the balm and gently smeared the cool, colorless goop across the bite wound, causing Sannan, who was watching him with caution, to release a soft sound of relief despite himself.

"Feel better?" Merlin asked cheerfully, not really expecting an answer.

"Ye—yeah," Sannan stuttered, his head bobbing as his shocked eyes flickered from his arm to his savior and back again.

"Well, that's good," the warlock commented.

"I'd say it's more than good," Nellie praised, beaming. Addressing Sannan, she said with a maternal sternness, "You'll be up and about in a few days—little exertion, mind you! And in two weeks at most, you'll be able to fight again.

Sannan blinked in confusion, and he looked at his arm again. "You're joking," he said in disbelief.  
>"Nope," Nellie said, popping the 'p' in her enthusiasm. "Merlin's the expert on magical ailments, not I. Whatever he says goes, and until further notice, that's his estimate. He said it may even be sooner, isn't that right, Merlin?"<p>

Merlin nodded, swiped a little more of the medicine on the nobleman's arm, and then took up some new bandages as the nobleman himself, with an uncharacteristic optimism, repeated, "Sooner?"

Nellie immediately frowned and made a violent gesture with her arms. "Oh, no! No, no, no. Merlin or I will give the say-so, Sannan! _You _will not, in any way, overexert yourself until you are healed. Last time that happened and you decided to ignore me, you ended up re-breaking your wrist." Turning to the injured man's brother, she ordered, "Bryce, I trust you to make sure he doesn't cheat and behave like a fool while he's recovering."

While Merlin, reminded of the prat's stubborn restlessness during forced recoveries, chuckled and continued to wrap the injury, Bryce and Sannan exchanged a swift look and grimaced at one another, acknowledging the authority in their Court Physician's voice and knowing full well what would happen if they disobeyed her.

With a sudden sly smile spreading across his face, Bryce ruffled his brother's hair and teased mockingly, "That'll be a tough one, Nellie: he's _always_ behaving like a fool."

"Oh, ha, ha," Sannan grumbled sarcastically. "That's right, torment the injured younger brother."

Pleased that the young man was speaking, showing signs of physical stability, and acting like his usual self, Merlin snickered, and neatly finishing with the bandages, he said, "Well, you're on your way to a full recovery already. I don't think there's much more I can do."

"There's not?" Sannan blurted.

Merlin blinked at the man who had so adamantly refused magical treatment not more than twenty-four hours ago, momentarily astounded, before he recovered and smiled.

As he guessed the reason for the warlock's passing shock, color rushed to the man's cheeks, but he did not lower his gaze from Merlin's, meeting his eyes and holding them for the first time with something that wasn't animosity, hatred, or fear. Instead, in his eyes, there was curiosity and even appreciation, something that the Court Sorcerer had previously believed was unable to be expressed by a man as arrogant as the one before him.

"Exactly," Merlin said, answering Sannan's question and watching him carefully, "When it comes to wounds, the body will only accept as much energy as it needs to reestablish its proper rhythms and regain the ability to heal on its own. You could make me sit here and repeat a healing spell—" Merlin noted with a burst of joy that the young man did not so much as flinch at the word "—or any variation of healing spells and nothing would happen but make me very irritable and you very, very annoyed.

"And unfortunately," he said, standing, "A prat of a King decided to drag me along on this trip to negotiate a peace treaty and therefore sit through interminable meetings, in which I will probably be of no help whatsoever, so even if you wanted to test it out…"

The three Escetians either smiled or laughed, and Merlin said to Sannan, "Just rest—Gods, I know how it is to be told that. I hate it as much as you do, but that's the only thing you really can do in order to get back up on your feet as quickly as possible." To Nellie, he added, "Every eight hours reapply the herbs and redress the wound. After two days, we can switch to every twenty-four hours. If the wound becomes inflamed or his state changes, send for me immediately, even if I'm stuck in those council chambers."

"Of course."

Responding her to sunny grin with one of his own, Merlin turned to leave, and the moment his hand was on the door handle, the physician called, "Merlin?"

"Yes?"

Her apple-red dimples flashed, and with ardent emotion overpowering her sweet voice, she said, "It was an honor to meet you."

That being the most kind and forcefully direct and truthful thing that anyone had said to him since his entrance into Livandir, warmth settled in his chest, and after thanking her fondly and shyly, he said, "And you, Nellie."

Her vivacious eyes sparkled with good-nature and compassion, and she looked just as visibly touched as he felt.

Looking at her, with her shining eyes and her wide, dimpling smile, Merlin was overcome with the realization that she was _real_. Well, of _course_, she was _real_, but there was strong genuineness to everything she was: she was real in the sense that she was true to herself, that her word was pure, and that her mind was untainted by anyone's beliefs and thoughts but her own.

Most others he met had some secret agenda or made valiant attempts to hide their true feelings and emotions, hiding behind a mask that they thought the world wanted to see. The warlock himself would admit that he was one such person far too often.

Nellie, on the other hand, was not that person; she was an open book and was proud and unashamed to show the world exactly who she was and how she felt. She hid behind no barriers, no masks or walls. She spoke her mind unreservedly and never avoided another's eyes. Perhaps that was because she had nothing to hide and no ill-will toward any man or woman, and therefore, she had no fear of causing offense to anyone. Perhaps it was because there was not a single deceptive fiber in her being.

She just… was who she was. No more, no less. _Real_.

Merlin wished to high heaven that one day, he could be as real as she was—real in the _entire_ sense of the word—but he knew his flaws. Besides, he was far too well trained as the one that stood and snuck in the shadows to _be_ that person. He was selling himself short, however: he knew exactly who and what he was, which was more than can be said of most people...

With a silent sigh and one last farewell, he pulled open the door only to nearly run directly into King Lot (_again_), whose fist was raised to knock on the door that just flew open.

Merlin stumbled backwards and grinned sheepishly; Lot, of course, looked unimpressed.

"This is getting old, Emrys," Lot growled roughly, jade eyes burning.

"Merlin, please, my Lord," the warlock corrected once again, hiding a wince at the use of his Druid name by a non-Druid, a man who hated his magic and everything to do with him, no less, which felt _wrong—very _wrong.

Lot harrumphed as Nellie called from inside her chambers, "My Lord?" Merlin felt the Court Physician approach from behind him.

With the corners of his grim, set mouth tweaking up, the King said with a gentler tone than Merlin could have expected from the stern, rough man, "I'm here to see Sannan, Nellie."

Merlin could not say that he didn't like Lot. Sure, his attitude towards him was unyieldingly merciless, and the Court Sorcerer was well aware that the King was full of downright loathing for not only him but all forms of magic and knew exactly just how deep that loathing was. Sure, he didn't like that the King was slightly egotistical and treated servants as though they were pack animals. But most of all, even though the warlock understood that Lot was incredibly misinformed and totally brainwashed by Uther Pendragon's ways, which was still true of many people back in Camelot, there was no reason for the King to judge _Arthur_ because of _him_.

However, there was something about Lot's grim countenance and his gruff speech, which alternated with tones of compassion—it was a rare thing for a King to be concerned enough to visit an ill or injured court member and rather interesting to see a spark of love in the eye of a King towards his physician—that Merlin could not help but associate with his father, Balinor, and despite the hatred consuming Lot, the warlock knew that there was something there that gave Merlin hope.

Then, the warlock had to admit, the whole incident preceding their official meeting was simply hysterical, and that alone, though it seemed to have irked and unbalanced Lot very effectively, made Merlin like the grave King more than a saner man might have.

"Of course, Lot. He's awake now," she whispered, shooting Merlin another incredibly grateful glance. "Good-bye, Merlin, and thank you, again."

"You're welcome. Have a nice evening, Nellie."

Lot, his jade eyes cynical, looked between Merlin and Nellie, a scowl twisting at his mouth.

After Nellie had excused herself and disappeared into her chambers again, Lot followed her halfway in through the door while Merlin had awkwardly stepped into the hallway. "Making friends, are you?" the King asked as he swept past Merlin.

"I like to think Escetians and Camelotians could be good friends," Merlin said coolly.

He could understand why Lot himself wouldn't want to establish much of a relationship with him beyond that of necessary allies by association, but that did _not _mean that Lot was justified in criticizing Merlin and the people he _did _become friends with. Judging by the frosty look he had just received and the looks he had seen when he was laughing with Kay and bantering with Arthur and the Knights, he guessed quite correctly that the King did not like seeing people—any people—becoming even remotely intimate with a known sorcerer.

Though he wouldn't be surprised if the man suspected that he used an enchantment to _force_ people to act as though they were his friends. _Everyone _seemed to always suspect enchantments.

Merlin, smiling wryly at himself for the joke, couldn't help but add with a strange combination of innocence and cheekiness, "Don't you, Sire? That is why we are here, after all."

Of course, the observant King caught the less-than-innocent tone and narrowed his wrathful eyes to slits. Stepping aggressively closer to the younger man and closing the door partway behind him so that they wouldn't be overheard, Lot hissed threateningly, "You might be able to speak that way with the Pendragon, _sorcerer,_ but I will not tolerate this…sarcasm. Perhaps _he_ finds it amusing; perhaps he even finds it _cute_. I do not."

"I hardly think that Arthur thinks it's _cute_," Merlin said thoughtfully, mimicking Lot's volume and making a face. "It annoys the hell out of him most of the time, actually."

"You're still making jokes?" Lot demanded, face reddening. "Are you bloody mad?"

Merlin chuckled. "Some think so."

"Well, you had better find some sanity," Lot snapped, "Or I'll find it for you."

"I think I can find it on my own, thanks," Merlin said cheekily, eyes dancing with humor, "but the question for you, Sire, is where exactly the borderline between sanity and insanity meets, don't you think? My sanity could easily prove to be more maddening and irritating than my insanity."

Lot's unwavering eyes faltered for a moment, completely dumbstruck, before they began to spit fire. "Riddles will never get you anywhere, sorcerer."

Merlin began to laugh at the irony of that statement. "It's rather strange that you think that. On the contrary, riddles have gotten me _everywhere_. Damn that dragon. He's rubbed off on me."

The enraged King, visibly shaking, closed his eyes and looked as though he was struggling to control himself. In fact, Merlin fancied he was having a major internal battle over whether or not to strangle him.

Obviously, Lot's good conscious won out, and sighing in suppressed vexation, he composed himself fractionally. "Are you sure you won't need help searching for your sanity?" he sneered mockingly.

Merlin shook his head and answered insolently, "Yes, Sire. Besides, I'm sure Arthur'll help me if need be. And speaking of Arthur, he probably—"

Deep hatred stirred in Lot's jade eyes, and he jeered, "Yes, yes, of course. The sorcerer playing manservant needs to prepare his King."

"Exactly," Merlin said, unfazed by the contemptuous words, suddenly becoming less cheerful at the prospect of sitting through the long, boring dinner. The negotiations would begin, and Merlin was sure Arthur would _kill _him if he wasn't on his best behavior—he was already told to refrain from using magic and to actually pay _attention_.

"If you fall asleep," Arthur had threatened him, "I will personally string you up and feed you to Lot's dogs."

He hid a sigh. "I'll see you in an hour, my Lord."

Lot did not respond with more than a small inclination of the head and a wrinkled nose. Taking that as dismissal, Merlin was about to turn away and plunge into the maze of an unfamiliar castle, but the King stopped him by calling thoughtfully, "Oh, and, Emrys?"

"Merlin," he corrected, facing Lot again.

"Right. _Mer_lin, do take advantage of the bath you have waiting for you in your guest chambers before standing in my presence again."

Feeling as though he had been struck in the face, Merlin thought, _well, that was a bit uncalled for_!

He couldn't have smelt or appeared _that _appalling because he quite literally had _just_ washed up a few hours ago: it had been a bit of a necessity to get rid of the nasty blood all over…

His hand flew to the back of his head automatically, and brow furrowing, he immediately came into contact with one clump of clunky locks, stiff with purple Crocotta blood.

He groaned, much to Lot's surprise, and swore under his breath in the Old Tongue. "Well, that's just embarrassing. How in the world did I manage to get those damn beasts' blood _there_ of all places? Of course, no one seemed to think it was prudent to tell me about it…Thank you, Sire."

Leaving behind a King who looked as though he was being forced to suck a lemon, Merlin, still grumbling about the friends who thought it would be oh-so-hilarious not to tell him that he had somehow missed a clump of blood at the back of his head, darted away with the hopes of not getting lost, and he thought sarcastically, _Perhaps I _should_ get lost now and hide in a corner somewhere… Arthur is sure going to be thrilled with me_.

~…~

"That—that—!" Gwaine stuttered indignantly, pacing Arthur's chambers with his hands tangled in his still-damp hair. They had all just finished bathing and dressing for supper, and while waiting for Merlin, they decided to vent and gossip like old women about King Lot and Livandir.

"_Séo sinsnæd weorftordes_!" Gwaine finished.

"Nice one," Percival grunted appreciatively.

"Oh, you know what it means? I hear Arthur using that one all the time, but I think I missed that lesson."

"You were probably hung-over," Lancelot muttered.

Percival snickered and said, "It's 'that large piece of dung,' I think, Gwaine."

A stony-faced Arthur, who had not said much during the course of the Knights' verbal bashing and had instead laid on the bed to sulk (he despised Lot's attitude toward Merlin, but insulting his fellow ruler behind his back was among the list of many, many things that would do absolutely nothing to change that), specified in a grunt, "Cattle dung."

Lancelot snorted, and Gwaine grinned roguishly, "Definitely a nice one, then. Did you _see—?"_

The young King, whose headache finally became unbearable (where the _hell _was Merlin when he needed him?), snapped in exasperation, "Yes, Gwaine. We _all _saw and heard Lot. We all know how much he hates magic. We all know that Merlin had better watch himself, and we all know that the idiot won't. But what we don't know is _what we're going to do about it!_"

Fuming, Arthur sat up and flung his legs over the edge of the bed, sapphire eyes blazing. First and foremost, the memories of his father, then of Godwin, then of Ulfric, then of the multitude of nameless crying for Merlin's blood, then of Lot, who had an obsession that rivaled even his father's and who had finally pushed him over the edge, flashed before his mind's eye.

He was sick. Sick of it all.

Arthur did not care if someone hated magic: that was their own right, after all, but that was no reason to hate _Merlin_. That cliché 'don't judge a book by its cover' (he had Geoffrey, Gaius, and quite a few tutors to thank for repeating _that _one during his childhood) seemed to be nonexistent and held absolutely no value to anyone anymore. This was Lot's mistake, and that was the basis for the young King's dislike of his fellow ruler, who misplaced his aggressions on someone he had never met before and didn't _know_.

Lot was a part of the problem—a large part—but the most pressing issue on his mind was more or less what he had just shouted at Gwaine.

For the past hour, he had exhausted his brain, searching for anything that Merlin, he, and the others might have missed in their plans for dealing with the transition from anti-magic to pro-magic, searching for anything that they could _add_, something that would make them look past the magic and see Merlin for who he truly was and treat him as he deserved.

Morbidly, he thought that perhaps Merlin was right and perhaps he did unintentionally curse them by joking that it'd take another invasion of Camelot for the rest of these fools to open their eyes.

If it would work, he almost wished that there _would _be a massive invasion of Camelot.

Almost.

He was just sick, sick for Merlin, and there was nothing he could do to help, which made his insides twist and squirm with self-loathing. Being a man of action, he had always hated feeling helpless, and now that it was Merlin—the one man who would give his life for any of the people who hated him (so long as they weren't plotting against Camelot or trying to kill Arthur, of course), the one who always offered second chances, the one who gave so much more than he took, the one who never failed to offer help—that was the side of the coin that needed saving, this helplessness seemed intensified tenfold and did not, in anyway, sit well with him.

He had to accept that all he could do was continue on as is and support Merlin. Through thick and thin.

Little did he know that it was only a matter of time before it thickened like spoiled milk.

It was at the moment that Arthur had his victory and his shamefaced Knights began to think about the question he posed when Merlin decided to trot in—late as usual—with that goofy, lopsided grin of his on his face.

Seeing him smiling put Arthur in a marginally better mood, but true his usual character, he said sharply, "Where the hell have you been?"

Merlin did not disappoint, and cocking his head toward his King, he said as though offended by Arthur's less-than-polite greeting, "Someone's hungry."*

"What's your excuse?" he retorted, a spike of pain stabbing between his eyes.

"And obviously so exhausted you can't think straight," Merlin added. "What kind of retort was that?"

Ignoring the question and sniffing haughtily, Arthur said suspiciously, "You know, you still haven't answered my question. It makes me think you're avoiding it."

Merlin made a face and said without a hint of deception in his voice, "I was with Sannan, as I told you I would be."

"Mate, we know it doesn't take you that long to change bandages," Percival commented. "What held you up?"

"Thanks, Perce," Merlin moaned sarcastically, flopping down in a seat wearily.

Forgetting his pounding head, which Arthur was sure Merlin would undoubtedly diagnose as being caused by a mixture of hunger and fatigue, for a moment, the blonde young man studied his Court Sorcerer carefully. He did not like seeing those dark rings discoloring the flesh underneath his stormy eyes.

"So?" Lancelot goaded.

With a sigh, Merlin leaned back his head against the wall and closed his eyes. "Lot."

"_Again_, Merlin?" Arthur asked incredulously. "Do I want to know what happened?"

His friend's lips twitched in the semblance of the 'Dragoon-grin,' and he said, "No, I don't think you do."

"You know that only makes us want to know, mate," Gwaine teased.

Arthur submitted to a wry smile and, with raised brows, made an obvious gesture to Merlin for him to speak.

"Well," Merlin began, sitting straight again and meeting the others' gazes with his own stormy blue eyes. "First…"

He put his long fingers to the back of his head and his eyes glowed gold. He pulled the hand away to display a thick clump of black hair, tangled with dried blood, between his fingers.

"Lot thought I needed a bath," he explained with a roll of his eyes, which flared again with magic as the clump crumbled to nothing and the now short section of hair re-grew to match the length of the rest of his tousled head. "I suppose he wanted get an aggressive response out of me…or at least get me to shut up."

Arthur, knowing better than to ask Merlin if Lot got what he wanted and knowing full well that Merlin handled the insult in a perfectly Merlin-esque way (which probably ended with an utterly bemused Lot), instead asked, "And _why_ would he want that?"

"I—erm—Lot doesn't appreciate wisecracks."

"Gods, Merlin, when will you get it into your thick skull that _no _one appreciates them?"

"Hey, he was questioning my sanity," Merlin said in defense, folding his arms and grinning diabolically. "What was I supposed to do? Lie down, roll over, and _let _him?"

Gwaine hooted with laughter, clearly envisioning the scene and wishing he had seen it, "I hope you gave it to 'im, mate!"

"Not necessarily," Arthur admitted to Merlin, hiding his smile behind his practiced scowl, "but I would have hoped you'd be a bit more tactful. He is a _King_, Merlin…and we do want to try to establish peace."

"I'm only tactful when the need calls for it," Merlin said seriously, blue eyes hardening. "King or not, that man _needs_ someone to retaliate and slap him upside the head a bit…even more than _you _did, Arthur, and that's saying something."

"_Merlin_—!"

"This is getting us nowhere," Lancelot said, cutting off the young King's fiery response, "Tell us from the beginning, Merlin, and then you need to get ready. We have less than an hour now before this dinner…"

"Ugh," Merlin groaned. "Don't remind me."

~…~

The dinner itself wasn't as horrible as Merlin thought it would be. The food was good, and though he participated in little conversation beyond that of which Arthur, whose mood had improved after he had begun to eat, Kay, Bryce, or the Knights dragged him in (the others of Lot's court either being holed away in Nellie's chambers or being particularly terrified to see him sitting among them in his famous midnight blue cloak and almost insulting, unkempt hair that completely contrasted with the finery of his clothing), he listened aptly to the others' conversations with bright, interested eyes.

Kay spent most of the evening chatting and laughing, and he was playing with his cutlery, as usual. Merlin had observed the habit back in Camelot and had discovered that Kay had a fondness for dagger-play and knife throwing. Well, fondness was too subtle of a word—the ex-knight was a_ master_ of daggers.

The morning after the Escetian group arrived, Kay had challenged Arthur to spar, which the young King accepted with a glowing grin and smirking eyes, and after quite a bit comical teasing and insulting, they fought.

Merlin never particularly enjoyed watching the Knights clobber each other with blunt metal—they needed to retain what few brain cells they had left, after all, and knocking each other around for _fun_ wasn't exactly the best way to go about doing so—but watching Kay and Arthur spar had been different than watching Arthur's fights with his other Knights or the fights in the melees and tournaments.

The others clashed with all of their strength, withdrew to power up another attack or to size up their foe, and looked a hell of a lot clumsier and far more set on the 'kill-my-enemy-and-win' part of fighting (which is really all you need in a real battle situation) than the two old friends did. They had moved with the fluid grace of dancers, and their faces set with determination to prove to the other that their level of skill was higher and their movements more beautiful than the other's.

It was the first time that Merlin ever really considered swordplay an art.

The fight had enraptured him and everyone on that field, and having had given up trying to follow who had the upper-hand, an awed Merlin had watched the speed of their dance, the flashing of their swords, and the constant movement—neither one of them halted or hesitated in their swings and stabs, always continuing and moving when one move after another failed.

Before long, it was somehow all over. Arthur had stood straight-backed, his hair sticking to his forehead and face soaked with sweat, with his sword pressed lightly against Kay's neck. Panting, a gleeful smile had spread across his face, and cheers had erupted from the observers.

However, Kay's smug, superior smile and the sudden movement of his wide-set teal eyes from Arthur's to his midsection made the victorious King falter and follow the gaze.

In Kay's fist was a curving dagger centimeters away from Arthur's gut.

The two friends had stood down in the same moment, laughing and clapping each other on the back in congratulations for the amazing play.

Merlin had noticed afterward that Kay always had a dagger or knife at hand and that he had such a bad habit of fiddling with them that it was far more alarming to see him without a dagger than it was to see him without a sword.

So, while watching Kay play with his meat knife during dinner wasn't unusual, the _way _he played with it was. He usually messed around with his daggers casually and gently, holding them like fragile eggs and turning the wooden handles over and over in his hand. Today, the way he fiddled with the knife less calmly and more agitatedly. He seemed overtly enthusiastic—like that of a dog about to be taken out hunting—and his excitement seemed to be catching to all of whom he talked to…excluding Merlin, even though he was the one Kay seemed to be trying to talk to the most.

Lot, on the other hand, did not speak to Merlin, which was fine by him, and though there was still some tension between them, it was nowhere near the caliber Merlin had thought it would be. For that, Merlin was relieved. However, the warlock did catch the King looking at him with conflicted and vigilant eyes more than once, making Merlin suspect that Sannan, Bryce, and-or Nellie had said something that touched and influenced Lot, only to have him scowl and sneer once he realized Merlin caught him staring.

Thus, dinner passed in a blur, but, of course, _after _dinner was a different story.

Over the last of the wine and then some (Merlin, of course, refused anything more than one goblet out of courtesy to their host, despite Gwaine's best, not-so-subtle efforts), the talk shifted to that of the treaty, and Merlin was proud to say that he did _not _fall asleep and in fact had offered a few insightful comments and arguments to the discussion that both Arthur _and _Lot had found valuable—and openly admitted it. Lot had even asked for Merlin's opinion once, as well.

Lot seemed to have put aside his hatred of Merlin, which proved to the lanky young man that though he might be an Uther enthusiast, he _wasn't _Uther reincarnated. This is where Merlin's hope in Lot laid: he knew when to sacrifice and set aside personal grudges and when to embrace logic and common-sense, and he would take, accept, and contemplate a good idea when it came to him…even if it was from a source he'd rather not draw from.

Or, so he thought…until magic was brought up.

Everyone was giving the topic of magic wide berth and very obviously side-stepping it and avoiding it at all costs, but in the end, the efforts were wasted. It was inevitable.

"…but Lot, you must remember," Arthur began cautiously, a soft warning in his voice, "if Camelot ever has need of men and asks you for assistance, your men _will _be fighting alongside those with magic."

The room's atmosphere became as taut as a bowstring, and everyone stiffened with varying degrees of resignation, disapproval, and almost comical disconcertment and uneasiness on their faces.

"Ah, yes," Lot said, his cold jade eyes flickering to Merlin and back, "Merlin Emrys fights with you. Druids too, I presume?"

Arthur and Merlin exchanged a look from across the table, and the younger King said, "Druids are our allies, yes. Depending on the severity of the situation…"

"Of course, of course," Lot said flippantly. "Your men and mine will do what needs to be done—our differing opinions will not be a problem, in that regard, and I have no worries. I, however, am more concerned about the Druids that lie within my borders."

"And why would that be, my Lord?" Merlin asked loudly, startling the members of Lot's Court around him.

Lot said slowly, "I am not going to tolerate magic in my kingdom. I should think they would immigrate to Camelot, but these are as much their ancestral lands as they are mine. They will not leave."

A rush of rage suddenly flooded through Merlin, and he said with burning eyes, "You mean to forbid them from using magic or _force_ them to leave." He felt Arthur's intense eyes begging him to be careful.

But since when had he ever obeyed him?

"I may be able to work with Camelot," Lot said stiffly and glaring directly at Merlin, "but that is as far as I will go."

"Another Purge," Merlin said softly and dangerously, "will not solve anything, Lot."

Eyes narrowing, Lot spat, "It is not your place to address me as such and nor is it your place to advise me on how to rule my kingdom, _sorcerer._"

"Your actions will affect Camelot as much as they do Escetia," Merlin said ominously. "Especially if you end up dead."

Arthur rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose, and gasps resounded around the room.

"Was that a threat?" Lot hissed.

"Only if you make it one," the warlock countered.

"Riddles again, sorcerer?" the Escetian King sneered.

Merlin had to refrain from rolling his eyes. "Would you say this is sanity or insanity, my Lord?" he asked cleverly, making Lot's nostrils flare. "When will it end?"

"When I'm certain that magic no longer exists and will never exist again," Lot exclaimed.

"What is it you're afraid of, _Sire_?" Merlin asked with eyes of cold fire. He did not know it, but a good portion of Lot's court was petrified by him, and as he was no longer the quiet, mysterious, and good-natured man that had dined with them, they were terrified of the crackling aura of power he seemed to now possess. "If you leave them be—"

"They will revolt and attack."

Merlin shook his head viciously and said forcefully, "They will only do so when you make the same mistakes Uther did! Have you never wondered _why _Camelot was attacked by more magical beings than the rest of the kingdoms combined? Why this generation's Pendragons were more targeted than any ruling family in history? And tell me, Lot: how many magical attacks there have been in Camelot since the ban on magic was lifted?"

There were some mutterings of agreement around him, and when Lot, blinking at the harsh evidence, was silent, Merlin added, more calmly, "You have absolutely nothing to fear. Sure, there may be a few issues, but an alliance with Camelot would ultimately ensure the Druids' peace with you."

"Oh, and how can you be so sure?" Lot said mockingly. "Are they so loyal to King Arthur that they'd immediately…?"

"Not to me," Arthur interrupted gruffly, "as much as to Merlin."

"_Merlin_," Lot repeated with a bark of derisive laughter. "And why does that not comf—?"

Merlin did not hear the rest of the insult—from his peripheral vision, he caught sight of movement, and now on high alert, his attention was directed towards the suspicious form slipping from behind a pillar and into their midst.

For the briefest millisecond, he was relieved to see that it was just a servant carrying a fresh jug of wine, but immediately, his instincts alerted him that something was wrong.

The way the weasel of a man moved, the eerie look in his eyes and the set of his mouth…the fact that Merlin could not recall seeing this particular servant once during the duration of the evening…

Then, when his shabby jacket shifted, Merlin saw that there, paired with a hidden dagger, tucked into his belt, was a thin black sash.

He stiffened, the verbal brawl between Kay (when did he join the conversation?), Arthur, and Lot going completely unnoticed, and he watched the imposter slip behind Lot and refill his empty goblet with something that was very obviously _not _the pinkish red wine they had been drinking all night.

It was the perfect moment, really, to slip the pumpkin orange potion into Lot's drink. Everyone was distracted by the heated argument, so only Merlin noticed the vivid color and immediately became aware of the new acrid scent that accompanied the jug's entrance.

The servant, still ignorant to the fact that Merlin had discovered him, moved to Lot's left and took two steps backwards without touching any other cups, and in that same moment, Lot snorted with a dark cynicism—he had probably just said something Merlin should have been helping to refute—and reached for his drink…

"Don't!" Merlin shouted. With a hand gesture and glowing golden eyes, the cup was slapped from Lot's hand. Even before its contents splashed to the floor, pandemonium broke loose, and the servant was already dropping the jug and drawing his hidden dagger to throw into Lot's side.

Ignoring the yells, noise, and quite a few drawn swords—it was just his luck that Lot's guards had decided to drop in—Merlin threw up his hand, and the assailant went flailing through the air. His head hit the stone wall with a sickening _thwump_, and he crumpled to the floor, his neck broken and dark eyes glazed over.

The dagger, much to Merlin's relief, was still clutched firmly in the dead man's small hand.

Noticing that Lancelot had noticed the peculiarity of the drink, Merlin warned loudly, "Don't touch it!" Lancelot, thank the gods, began to repeat his warning to those servants who strayed too close.

A few people ran over to the broken man, and Arthur and the Knights were the only ones trying to figure out exactly what happened while Kay yelled at the others to stop shrieking and calm down.

However, Lot shouted over the confused noise to the guards, "Seize him!"

Merlin, his eyes fading back into their stormy blue, was quickly surrounded by three men with emotionless faces, and he said to them brightly, "If you so much as touch me, I'll make you belch frogs until your throats become so thick with encrusted slime that you can't eat anything more than broth."

That creative threat effectively made the entire room pause and stare at him, including the guards, who stood with their weapons dangling uselessly and with utterly horrified faces, and he took the opportunity to duck away. However, one brave soul—he was one of Lot's men whose name he had forgotten the moment he had been introduced—caught his arm, and wincing at the claw-like grip, he said darkly, "So quick to condemn me, My Lord."

Lot, visibly shaking with uncontrolled rage, exclaimed, "Take him from my sight! He'll be executed for unlawful conduct and murder."

"No, stop!" Bryce demanded. "Stop. Sire, please, look at this."

Fuming wrathfully, Lot rounded on the nobleman more to yell at him than to obey his entreaty and suddenly froze.

Bryce had lifted the man's arm to display the dagger he was holding as well as a nasty set of pussy, blackened burns from the drink that had splashed up on him.

Everyone, finally understanding what had just happened and what Merlin had done for the hateful King, slowly turned back to the warlock, who, with a weak smile, repeated, "Don't touch the drink."

~…~

"He's lucky you were there, Merlin," Arthur grumbled later in the safety and privacy of his chambers. Percival, Gwaine, and Lancelot had just left for their own beds down the hall, having spoken for at least an hour after the disastrous evening about why the hell someone would want to kill Lot when he had only been King a week. "Ungrateful git."

Merlin, none the worse for wear after the rough handling he'd been given and severely disturbed, was pacing. "He let me go, didn't he?"

"Almost reluctantly," Arthur specified angrily.

"No, he actually gave me a genuine thank you, though he didn't seem particularly fond of the fact I used magic to save him. At least he didn't seem to think that _I _hired the man to kill him."

Arthur snorted sarcastically and insulted under his breath, "Esol."

Smiling wryly, Merlin continued, "I think he was just in shock, and he'll be back to his cheery self by tomorrow. That was the first time someone's attempted to assassinate him: he's not used to it yet."

"…Do you realize how morbid and weird that sounds?"

"Well, you're one that's regularly attacked, aren't you? _You_'re already used to it."

"Shut up, Merlin."

There was a tense silence before Merlin said worriedly, "I don't like that the others are so far from the two of us."

"Merlin, relax," Arthur said sternly, following his Court Sorcerer's line of thinking. "That black sash could have been _anything. _You're being completely paranoid. Besides, there're guards standing in the entrances to this corridor. I wouldn't worry."

"Fine, fine," Merlin muttered, acquiescing to Arthur's reasoning, completely unconvinced.

He felt as though a shadow was hovering over him, waiting like a billowing storm cloud before a torrential downpour and threatening to strike him like lightning at any moment.

"Just get some rest, Merlin," Arthur said. "You might hide it well, but I know you're still exhausted from healing Sannan, and since tomorrow will be—"

Merlin groaned. "Don't finish that statement."

"Or what?" the young King teased. "You'll force me to belch frogs?"

Merlin laughed, and Arthur, standing from his perch on the bed, took his friend by the shoulders and steered him to the door.

"You know, Merlin," Arthur said softly, "that was really impressive…the fact you actually saw the imposter and acted so quickly, and I still can't believe you saved him after what he's said to you."

"Hero complex," he mumbled jokingly. "Bit of a blessing and mostly a curse, isn't it?"

"You ask me as though _I _have one."

Merlin grinned diabolically. "Somebody's in denial."

"Merlin, I do not have a hero complex."

"Sure you don't"

Rolling his eyes and pushing the younger man out of his room, the elder scowled, "Get out, you idiot."

Merlin stumbled over the door hinge on the way out and said cheerfully, "Sleep well, prat."

"You too," Merlin heard Arthur say softly as he shut the door.

~…~

Merlin did not really like the guest chambers he had been given to occupy during his stay. This was mostly because the bed and room he was in was nothing like his tight, cozy loft and his hidden, messy room in the library that he had come to love. This bed was too soft, the room too quiet, and overall, everything was too _large_.

However, that did not stop him from falling sound asleep fully dressed the second his head touched the pillow.

And sleep he did…until he was rudely awoken by the sound of loud thumps and muffled grunts coming from the room next to his.

Fighting bleariness, Merlin blinked and sat up in bed, and after barely two seconds of wondering what the hell was going on, a foul hand clamped over his mouth.

Merlin, impulsively struggling with all his strength, was forcefully pulled off the bed and to the floor by two large men…men who were covered from head to toe in black.

Eyes widening with desperateness and concern for Arthur, he bit the man's hand, causing him to cry out and jerk away, and Merlin scrambled on his hands and knees only to be tackled by the second man and knocked flat onto the floor.

He tried to focus his magic, but the first man, the one he had bitten, effectively interrupted him with a nice, strong kick to the ribs and then the head, which made his vision shudder, go black, and then return incredibly fuzzy and made his lungs fail him.

Before he knew it, the two men had him pinned to the floor so that he couldn't move, and with their dead eyes glinting, one of them pulled out a phial…

Half-concussed, throbbing with dull pain, and consumed by animalistic fear, Merlin wiggled viciously only to have the one that he bit (go figure) stomp on his fingers, and when he opened his mouth to cry out, the vial of horribly dark Dark magic was uncorked and dumped down his throat.

Sticky and thick, it slid down his throat before he could cough and splutter it out, and as soon as it was down, Merlin's worst nightmares became a reality.

He was burning alive.

The black flames, roaring, writhing, twisting, licking, blazing so hot through his veins that they felt icy; the poison ripping and churning deep in him, maneuvering through his body with the furious passion of a perverted molester and with the finesse of a psychopathic torturer. Lusting, drinking, pulling, sucking, engulfing, consuming, and tearing. Every molecule of his being screaming….

It was pain beyond pain. Agony beyond agony, and it was powerful enough to pull Merlin into unconsciousness even before he had the chance to remind himself that he had failed, that he had failed Arthur.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Waking up was not pleasant. Every movement sent a new wave of black fire coursing through him, from head to toe. His heart burned excessively, his throat was torn from noiseless screaming, his head felt as though a horse had repetitively pranced across it and had ground his brain to mush with its hooves, his body felt as though it had been Kilgharrah's chew toy, and his…his…

It wasn't just the pain. He felt sick—feverish and chilled at the same time. His stomach (which was hurting as though someone had inflated it and stretched it far beyond its limits, only to puncture it with a vicious stab) was doing drunken somersaults, and his nausea….oh, Gods.

He turned over and vomited twice, which did little to make him feel better. In fact, he felt even more nauseated than before, and a strong wave of fire surged through him again, causing him to whimper.

Someone scrambled loudly over to him and began to shake his shoulder.

"Merlin? Merlin? You're alright. You have to be alright. Get up, you idiot…C'mon…"

Of course, it _had _to be the prat.

"Get'ff me, Arthur," Merlin rasped hoarsely, opening his eyes.

Arthur had a lovely looking bump on his head, and some dried and cracking blood ran down the side of his head and cheek. His blonde hair was caked with more blood and littered with the straw and muck of the disgusting cell Merlin discovered they were sharing. His blue eyes were wide with worry, and the young King leapt back from Merlin when he spoke and opened his eyes, looking horrified by what he saw shining through them.

His destiny looked alright, but his state and small injuries, injuries that _he _could have prevented…despite the pain he was in and the horrifying sickness he felt, Merlin found himself pushing it all aside and concern and love for the prat taking complete control.

"Merlin, what—what did they do to you?" Arthur whispered angrily, trying to hide the intensity of his worry and his shaking hands behind an enraged tone.

"I—" He was sent into a fit of coughing, and he gritted his teeth against the black flames. "They—gave it to me."

After a second of confusion, Arthur's face crumbled in horror, and he said, "But you're alive…you're alive…" Immediately, his face transformed and pulled into a ferocious, protective snarl. "Merlin, we have to get out of here. We can figure out what happened later, but we need to find the others and…"

Drawing on his courage and depending on his immortal pain tolerance, the warlock, weak and shaking with the strain, managed to wobble to his feet, and he closed his eyes to the world to hide the pain. For Arthur—he had to do this for Arthur. He wanted to do nothing more than curl up into a ball and lay still, but Arthur…who knew what they had planned for him? Who knew what they would do to him?

Sick or no, pain or no, he had to protect. He had to protect him.

"How long was I out?" he asked.

"About three hours. I thought you were dying," Arthur said brokenly, the snarl disintegrating. "Your pulse…it was barely there, and you were as pale as a corpse…barely breathing. Your eyes were open until about a half-hour ago…they—they switched between gold and blue, but there was no magic, Merlin. None."

No magic…?

"The others?" Merlin asked, clenching his jaw again and withholding a grunt. He raised his hand to the door and tried to concentrate.

"I heard Gwaine yelling and cussing about the time they brought you in here; I think they're here, wherever here is…"

Arthur continued to ramble, and Merlin lost track of what he was saying in his growing panic.

Nothing…there was nothing…It wasn't there. No, it was. But wasn't? It had to be. Where was it? He couldn't find it, couldn't grasp it, couldn't embrace it…or let it embrace him…It must be a dream. It was almost funny, really. Comical. What a really horrible nightmare…that was what it was. Of course it was. Maybe Lot was right. Maybe he was a bit insane…but…No, this was no nightmare. Where was it?

He could always use magic in his nightmares. Always.

His burning heart skipped and tripped, the panic and fear, building and building…

"_Tospringe_," he gasped, feeling something wrench and rip in him.

Tears beaded up in his eyes. It hurt. It shouldn't hurt; it shouldn't feel like this…it shouldn't be hard. Where was it? Why wasn't it there? Where was its warmth? Its familiarity?

Ignoring Arthur's frantic calling of his name, he said more forcefully, "_Tospringe!"_

Another wrench, another rush of burning, icy fire, and the tears began to fall, like a springtime drizzle.

Where? Why couldn't he find it? Why wasn't it there for him? Where was _he? _He lost it….lost himself…He began to hyperventilate.

Hardly aware of Arthur's hands on his shoulders and blinded by tears and a red haze of pain, he yelled the spell at the door, his voice tearing and cracking. Over and over again, ignoring the flashes of lightning that struck him every time he reached and reached….and found nothing.

Yet, the door was unyielding.

Finally, he felt himself being lowered to the floor and being supported by strong arms, and the drizzle became a flood. "Arthur…Arthur," he sobbed.

"Shh, Merlin. It's okay."

"No, no, Arthur. It's gone. I can't find it, Arthur," he blubbered incoherently, not only physical, but emotional pain raging in his mind and tearing at his heart.

"Merlin…"

"My magic, Arthur," he gasped, his heart thudding in complete terror. "It's—nothing. Nothing, Arthur. Gone….gone…I'm gone.

"I'm nothing."

* * *

><p>AN: *I say this to my sister all the time when she's cranky<p>

Let me tell you, I was NOT expecting that ending to be like that, but I'm pretty damn proud of it. ;) I hope your heart stopped a few times because mine certainly did when I was writing it, and I hope that Merlin's emotional distress was well-written...hahaha, well-written? If it seems to have no style whatsoever and seems to be haphazard and all over the place...well, that was idea! :P I just hope that this scene wasn't totally OOC. Well, at least, by next chapter (which I'm thinking will have some Gwen in it), Merlin will steady himself and you'll all learn who's behind it all!

I apologize again if this isn't updated in awhile, but please respect my wish for you NOT to bother me for updates (Sorry, that sounded really cruel...and insensitive... *bites lip*). It's such a horrible time, I know, particularly with this cliffhanger. Bad planning on my part.

Thank you for reading, and I hope you've enjoyed.

Oz out.


	12. Empty

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: Well, this was supposed to be a mini chapter, but that didn't seem to work out, did it? ;) I wasn't expecting this to be that long, and though I'm not entirely thrilled with this, I assumed you'd be happy that I managed to update. I know that I promised on the last chapter that the next would have all the answers, but alas, the need for some bromance and worried!Arthur was far too strong. :P There are some MORE hints about what's going on, but for the most part, this chapter is Arthur's POV of the dungeon scene from the previous chapter with some before and after stuff. :)

Warnings: Humor's quite dark here, but fitting, and I use a bit more swearing than usual.

Hope this works for you. Enjoy:

* * *

><p><strong>Empty<strong>

It used to be very irritating—waking up with a minor concussion, that is. Waking up to the pin-needles pricking and stabbing behind your eyes and the ringing in your ears, waking up to the damn throbbing of your head and the horrible, fuzzy disorientation… sometimes, those lovely afflictions were accompanied by the coppery smell of your own blood and the feeling of it clumping in your hair and cracking on your skin.

It was one of _those _times.

Fortunately (or _unfortunately, _depending on how you looked at it), Arthur had gotten used to waking up in this manner. Sure, it wasn't _ideal, _but he had been knocked out enough times throughout the course of his life—Merlin had even seen it fit to joke, "After all that, it's rather amazing that you don't have _more _extensive brain damage, Arthur," which the young King, who had taken advantage of the fact that the idiot had made this observation at a time he had been on the training field with a mace in hand, had not found as humorous as his Knights—to accept these rude awakenings as a part of his life as well as a sign that he was still somehow miraculously alive.

So, while awakening to a concussion had long since failed to irritate him, he decided that there was something far more irritating than even Merlin's cheery shout of "rise and shine" in the mornings.

And that was waking to the discomfort of freezing cold toes, the dankness of an unknown enemy's dungeon, the echoes of that moron Gwaine's nasty cussing, _and _a disorienting concussion.

He groaned and winced, and grumbling in extreme vexation, he screwed his eyes together before slowly and carefully blinking them open.

His vision blurred, shifted, and tilted for a few seconds until he became conscious enough to focus, and it wasn't until Arthur realized that Merlin's goofy, bright-eyed, and slightly mocking smile was _not_ hovering over him that he knew that he had been expecting to see it.

That—that made a cold fear, colder than the now-numb iciness of his bare feet, grip his heart. He couldn't remember the last time he had awoken from a forced unconsciousness to _not _see that aggravating smile greeting him…

_Where was he?_

Forgetting his small head injury and ignoring the throbbing pangs, Arthur threw his head up and wobblingly lurched upright to his feet, swinging his frantic gaze around the small, straw-covered cell, which was comparable to the one he and Merlin had been locked in at the Castle Fyrien, in search for his friend.

To no avail.

_Oh, gods, no…no…_

Arthur, with worry and rage enflaming his thoughts, crossed his arms over his bare chest and rubbed his chilled biceps to generate warmth. He wasn't so much concerned about who had put him in the cell, why they put him in the cell, or how to get out of this far-too-familiar and messy situation at that moment. No, he was more concerned about where they took Merlin and what they were doing to him.

_That idiot had better not've—_

Suddenly, Gwaine's enraged tones cut through the halls to him again, and Arthur ran to the thick wooden door and pressed his face to the tiny barred window, which was no bigger than his hand, trying to see the corridor outside.

"Bastards!" Gwaine roared, his voice tearing with loathing and rage. He added some colorful tavern slang and profanity that Arthur had never heard before and would have had trouble repeating. "When I get my sword back, I promise I'm disemboweling every last bloody one of you!"

There was a loud crash and sounds of a struggle before Gwaine was suddenly silent. Arthur discovered by the volume of the noise that they weren't far away from where he was, and he called out loudly, "Gwaine!"

It was better than he had hoped. All three of his Knights responded to his shout with a collective cry of "Arthur!"

There was some more scuffing, one shout of indignation from Lancelot, and more cussing and flying insults from _Percival_ as Gwaine was (as far as Arthur could make out) knocked unconscious. An emotionless voice, carried like the whisper of a wintry gust of wind through the dead leaves still stubbornly clinging to boughs at the end of autumn, commanded to the two Knights, who had both begun to protest and struggle, "_Quiet!_"

Arthur growled and hit the door with both fists in rage and aggravation at his predicament, but he didn't dare call out again, knowing that his Knights would most likely be punished for it. Besides, it was no use; they wouldn't know anything nor would they be allowed to talk.

In addition, he got the information he wanted anyway: the Knights were accounted for and were together, but regrettably, Merlin was not there with them.

Damn it all. _Where was he? _

A large boom resonated—the unmistakable slam of a cell door.

He hit his forehead against his own door, and with white-knuckled hands still balled into fists, he pushed on the thick, scarred wood in vain, his mind churning. What the hell was he going to do? His Knights were being beaten and tossed into a cell separate from his own in these echoing, drafty, foul-smelling, _large_ dungeons, he had absolutely _no _idea what was going on, Merlin was missing…

He was most likely unconscious somewhere—they, whoever '_they'_ was, wouldn't want him to retaliate with magic, obviously…maybe he was drugged? Maybe…well, it depended on the enemy didn't it? If they wanted Merlin… No, he shouldn't think that! He _refused _to believe it, and the young King shook his head violently, which only made a flash of pain erupt behind his eyes.

They couldn't have killed him. Given how entwined their destinies were—how entwined _they _were—wouldn't he have _known_ if Merlin were…?

_No, stop thinking tha_t! Arthur shouted at himself, grinding his teeth. _He's. Not. Dead. He's alive. He has to be… _

With Merlin still lingering on his mind, he pushed aside his emotions, and, true to Uther's ways, instead of moaning and groaning, he decided to be productive and began to methodically and quickly formulate a list of options and hypothetical circumstances.

His furious contemplating was interrupted all too soon by a wordless, blood-curdling scream, louder than any of the previous cussing and brawling of his men, originating from gods knew where…

His only comfort was that, after a few seconds of initial, heart-stopping panic, he realized that he did not recognize the scream.

Overpowering the remnant echoes of the scream, a new sound of hideous, raucous laughter bounced off the stone walls, and heavy, booted footsteps clomped. Shadows crept up the walls in the flickering torchlight as (two?) men approached the young King's corridor, and said King wrinkled his nose in distaste at the obnoxious amount of sound they were making.

Complete arrogance. They thought that they had won already.

_Like hell they had_, Arthur growled determinedly.

Arthur tucked the observation of this over-confidence into the reserves of his mind, knowing full well the information might come in handy, and concentrating on the men's voices, he hoped he would catch something useful.

"Doesn't look so high and mighty _now_, does he?" one of the men was saying mockingly.

The King's heart began to race with the speed of his finest war horse. _Oh no…_

Another man guffawed. "A wittle boy twying to figh' a man's wawr," he cooed in a babying falsetto.

The first man whispered something in a contemptuous tone that Arthur could not make out, and he hissed in frustration.

"Not for much longer," the other boomed in response to whatever his fellow had said. "He's _ours_."

His companion snickered in triumph, but suddenly he snarled sharply, "Oi! You two! Stop dawdlin', and c'mon!"

"Useless fools," the second muttered.

"Can't blame 'em. Lybb's got 'em good," the other commented, his tone gleeful.

A part of him wondered who this 'Lybb' was, but the rest of him was tense with hardly contained and agonized anticipation. After what seemed like hours, four men slowly turned the corner. Two of them, still laughing cruelly at the mention of 'Lybb,' were very obviously nothing more than thugs. Big and brawny, they wore grubby clothes and walked with the saunter of a smug criminal having just gotten away with thievery. Clipped to their belts, from which hung a black sash, they had daggers of all shapes and sizes, but they possessed no sword.

But they were not important. It was the third and fourth men, completely covered in those damn black robes and trailing after the two thugs, who had caught his full attention.

Because hanging limply from their arms, face-down, was a familiar lanky figure with a mop of raven hair.

Wrath began to bubble in Arthur's gut, and a violent wrench of panic tore at his heart.

_Merlin. _

He hadn't realized he had gasped the name aloud until the two thugs started to laugh derisively at him.

"Look, Cadwy! If it ain't King Arthur of _Camelot_!" one taunted.

Cadwy flashed a set of crooked and diseased teeth. "I'd be darned." He bowed mockingly, sniggering the entire time, and asked with a false innocence and open hatred and disrespect, "Lookin' for your pet _sorcerer_, my _liege_?"

With a sickening smile on his face, he turned to Merlin, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and none-too-gently yanked his head up. He tutted, a contemplative look on his face as he looked at Merlin, "Not lookin' 'is finest, is he?"

"Go to hell, bastards!" Arthur responded viciously, eyes flickering from his friend, whose face he could not see in the poor lighting, to latch onto the squinting eyes of the thugs. He studied them carefully, wanting to remember their faces specifically when he managed to escape.

Cadwy dropped Merlin's head and laughed. "It won't be long before that spirit's crushed from you, Pendragon, and I can't _wait _to see it happen." His eyes flashed slyly to Merlin's limp body. "We've already crushed his."

In response, Arthur spat through the little opening in his door, and, thanks to his many boyhood competitions with Kay, the glob flew true and hit Cadwy directly in the eye.

The thug hissed and growled a guttural cuss, but before he could do anything, his infuriated chum grabbed the keys at his belt immediately, unlocking Arthur's cell door and making the young King reel backwards when the angry man's fist was first introduced to his face and then to his stomach.

Iron chains, attached to the floor, were clamped around his wrists.

Before Arthur could recover, Cadwy, wiping the spit from his eye, signaled to the two listless men holding Merlin, and with emotionless eyes, they walked forward like reanimated corpses (Arthur had to repress a shudder at the horrible grotesqueness of their lack of emotion and at the memory of a giggling man disintegrating before his eyes) and unceremoniously tossed the warlock in as though he were nothing more than a sack of grain.

Arthur only just managed to catch him awkwardly before he hit the floor and began to evaluate his condition instantaneously.

Despite the fact that Merlin was fully clothed in his attire from that evening's feast, complete with cloak and boots (he probably fell asleep that way when they caught him), he was absolutely freezing, his face was pale enough to be a corpse's, and…and…was he even _breathing?_

Frantically, he searched for a pulse.

No, no…His fingers searched the warlock's neck. Where…? No! There. There it was! It was faint, fluttering like that of a dying butterfly's last attempt to fly, but it was there.

Relief blossomed in his chest, and after grazing over Merlin's body with both his hands and eyes for any signs of blood or major injury and finding nothing more than some bruises and a hand already wrapped with bandages (what the hell?), he hurriedly brushed the younger man's dark hair from his eyes…

Set on a face of cold white marble, the stormy blue orbs, normally sparkling with joy and amusement, glinting with wisdom and cheekiness, and blazing with fierce resolve and steadfast loyalty, were wide open, staring up at him without a trace of life—dead, cold, dark… there was nothing of Merlin there. Those were not Merlin's eyes.

Fear gripped his insides, squishing and stretching them like an accordion-player. If it weren't for the pulse…Merlin—he _looked _dead, and even though the warlock had a pulse and _was _indeed breathing (he saw Merlin's neckerchief flutter with the hint of a gust of breath), Arthur could not think beyond that of the sickly pale grey face and the temperature of his skin.

And especially those eyes—those eyes that looked not only dead but completely _wrong_.

The only time he had ever felt this sense of horrifying wrongness was just over a week ago, when that giggling man committed suicide, and then another time, nearly two months ago, when Gvarath attacked...with Dark magic…

"What did you do to him?" Arthur hissed in a dangerous tone, blinking away tears and switching his fierce narrow-eyed gaze to the thugs.

Cadwy and the other nameless man had been watching Arthur's assessment with sadistic amusement, and with cynical eyes, Cadwy snorted. "Nothing less than 'e deserved, and _nothing _compared to what's comin'."

Arthur's nostrils flared, and he snared protectively, "If you lay a finger on him…"

They both barked a laugh, and gesturing to their two emotionless, shadowy companions to follow, Cadwy's crony sneered sarcastically, "I s'pose it's too late for that, eh? Besides, what d'ya think ya cando about it, Pendragon? Yeh're 'ready good as _dead_."

With that suggestive omen and with more maniacal laughter, they ignored his fiery glare and exited the cell, slamming the door behind them.

At that moment, Arthur's attention was diverted back to Merlin as he took one deep, shuddering breath that rattled in his throat and caused his whole body tremble. To his intense surprise and fear, the lifeless blue irises suddenly filled and swirled the gold—it was so dark, so dark…and nothing like that warm, molten color Arthur had become used to.

And, the strangest, most terrifying part of it all: _nothing_ was happening.

No objects were floating around, no fires spontaneously flickering to life, no silver-blue balls of light…_nothing. _No magic—at all.

Arthur may not know a lot about health—though at the moment, he was regretting and cursing his tendency to ignore both Gaius's and Merlin's ramblings about the physician's craft and healing magic—but he knew enough to know that _that _was not a good sign and that it was in no way normal for _anyone _to be in this state.

"Merlin?" Arthur whispered brokenly, shaking his friend's shoulder. When there was no sign of life, he tried again more harshly. "Merlin!"

His Court Sorcerer did not wake up. Hell, he didn't even _respond_. He just stared at the ceiling, with those glassy eyes flickering from cold blue to tainted gold haphazardly, and shivered uncontrollably against Arthur's chest.

He had felt powerless _plenty _of times when it came to Merlin, but this was the most terrifying, overpowering sense of hopelessness he had ever felt. Only just hours ago, wasn't he the one contemplating the fight against prejudice and the unsatisfying need to do nothing but be patient in his chambers? How petty it seemed now! Compared to _this? _Prejudice, be damned!

This enemy might be connected to the anti-magic mentality (it would explain why it was Merlin that was in this state and not he), but Arthur did know, without a doubt, that this enemy had a face. A face that could be fought and killed.

But, how could he protect Merlin when he didn't know _whose_ face?

"What did they do to you, Merlin?" he choked out, fingers digging into the soft fabric of the midnight blue cloak he had given him.

No, the real question: what was _he _going to do about it?

That was just the thing though: he didn't know _what _to do. Sure, he'd been in plenty of strange, magical situations during which he relied on his intuition, instincts, father's teachings, and both Gaius's and Merlin's advice, but he had never had been taught how to handle a situation in which his manservant-friend-Court-Sorcerer was in a bizarre, scary coma-like state of unconsciousness that had his powers flaring up with no magic _actually _being released…

Yeah, _that _would have turned out well—if he had been imaginative to ask in the first place of course. Had he asked his swords-master, horse trainer, his father, or his multiple tutors about _that… _well, he'd probably be branded as mad or drunk and sent away to an isolated part of the country with Gaius to help him sort out his mental affliction and-or alcohol addiction.

He could imagine Merlin's reaction to his joke, and it almost had him smiling weakly. The one tear that leaked from his eye, however, brought him back to reality.

For all he knew, Merlin would never wake up to hear the joke; for all he knew, Merlin was trapped in some terrible dream, suffering through immense pain, or _dying _at that very moment….

Rage gushed into his heart again, and he vowed, then and there, that, no matter what happened or how impossible it was to get out of whatever trouble he, Merlin, and the Knights were in, the ones who did this to Merlin were going to pay.

Not knowing what else to do and knowing that there was little he _could _do, Arthur, angry and desperately clinging for some hope that his friend would wake soon, gently laid Merlin down in the cleanest straw-covered spot he could find, and since he was still freezing, the young King tucked the warlock's cloak around him tightly in the attempt to help him retain whatever body heat he had left.

All he could do now was wait, wonder, rant about who and why (only now did suspicions toward Lot—that back-stabbing traitor!—cross through his mind), and promise that he would do whatever it took to keep Merlin safe until they could escape.

And escape they would.

~…~

_It has to be Lot_, Arthur decided.

For the last three hours, Arthur had watched over Merlin, his determination, anger, and worry steadily climbing throughout the long duration. He would have expected there to be a peak, a climax, to these passionate, intolerable emotions, but no, he wasn't that lucky.

For those three hours, when Merlin's chest began rise and fall unevenly and when his body began quake and sometimes even _convulse_, Arthur could do no more than to stare helplessly at those shifting eyes, and it wasn't until the violent jerking stopped and the breathing became quiet once again that he turned his gaze away, unable to bear the sight of Merlin's predicament when it only reminded him that there was absolutely _nothing _he could do to help.

Thankfully, these little fits became rarities as the time slipped by, and it was a half-an-hour ago that, after one nasty and absolutely terrifying fit in which Merlin had actually _screamed, _those disconcerting, dead eyes slipped closed and that his friend had begun to sleep.

However, most of the time, Merlin was still, and though Arthur spent much of those three hours wallowing in self-loathing and petrifying worry, he was free to think and took the opportunity to wonder about their enemy.

And, since he was positive they were still in Livandir, he had come up with no answer other than King Lot.

Lot _hated _Merlin, for one. It wouldn't surprise Arthur that Lot's hatred of magic went far deeper than even _he _estimated, and he knew far too well what happened to men who hated something with every fiber of their being.

But Merlin had some strange fondness of the gruff man, and he admitted to the Camelotian King that, even though he wasn't particularly happy with Lot's attitude of him (who would be?) nor of the way he treated his subordinates, there was something there that he couldn't help but like.

Even without the _aura_-reading, Arthur had learnt to trust Merlin's first impressions. He knew no one who made better or more correct ones than the warlock did. It was rather uncanny.

The _aura_ magic was used only to confirm or deny Merlin's impressions. _Auras_, Merlin once told him, _never lie_, and the Court Sorcerer happily and confidently told him that he had been right and that Lot, though a very conflicted and misguided man with absolutely no intention of making a friend of the warlock, meant to be a friend to Arthur and Camelot and _would _be.

These arguments outweighed any small ounce of proof he had for Lot's treachery, but Arthur had no one else to blame. So, in the end, it was easiest to cast Lot the blame.

Another point revolving in Arthur's mind was that he knew that, in some way, be it big or small, the Escetian King harbored some contempt toward _him _as well as Merlin: it wasn't hard not to see the glint of disapproval in his eyes or the cynicism in his tone when speaking of his more-or-less unorthodox decisions, after all. But was that really enough to throw him in the _dungeons? _

No, it wasn't.

Besides, the man _had_ seemed genuinely thrilled about his marriage to Guinevere, the daughter of a black-smith, whom he had wanted to _meet_…

_Gwen_. Now _that _was a whole other conflict on his mind that he couldn't and refused to address—he didn't want to think about her worrying about him or what would happen if—if he, or any of the others, didn't make it home.

Because he _would _make it home. Everyone would make it home.

So, after these three hours of torturous pondering, waiting, and worrying, Arthur was exhausted and nearly on the verge of sleep when Merlin suddenly shifted and moaned before turning over on his side to vomit.

_He was finally awake_.

Arthur, ignoring the putrid smell, feeling absolutely giddy with relief, and immensely grateful that his metal bonds weren't too short, immediately scrambled to the warlock's side. The relief left as suddenly as it had come. Merlin did not look good. His eyes were half-closed, and his forehead, which was still unhealthily pale and beaded with sweat, was scrunched with effort.

Could he speak? Was he even fully conscious? Or—the most disturbing question of them all—was he in pain? Merlin _rarely _showed pain—his self-sacrificing nature mandated so—and when he did, Arthur _knew _that it was extraordinarily bad.

_Don't you _dare _die on me now, idiot_.

The King grasped his friend's shoulder, shook it, and said, "Merlin? Merlin? You're alright. You have to be alright. Get up, you idiot…C'mon…"

Merlin flinched and grumbled in a torn, raspy voice, "Get'ff me, Arthur." The blue eyes opened fully to look at him.

Arthur jerked away in shock. His voice was abused from screaming—he must have been screaming before those thugs had brought him to the cell, and if that wasn't a horrible enough revelation!

It was the eyes. He was taken aback by the brief flash of pain he saw raging in them before Merlin skillfully hid it from him. Not only that, but there was…a _light_ missing. It was as though he was staring out a hazy window…or looking at the bottom of a perfectly clear, shallow pond through a disturbed surface of water. Merlin's eyes, though expressing every emotion, miraculously concealing just how much pain he was in, and displaying soft concern for _him _as they searched Arthur for injuries, were still somehow inexplicably and horrifyingly _empty_.

All Arthur could say was that this was _more _than an illness. This was something else entirely.

Hands shaking, Arthur whispered angrily and worriedly, "Merlin, what—what did they do to you?"

Merlin pressed his lips together and closed his eyes briefly. "I—" The warlock had a coughing fit and as he struggled to regain his voice, he gritted his teeth and mumbled, "They—gave it to me."

It took a moment for Arthur to understand what Merlin meant, and the instant he did, horror overtook his confusion. No, that would mean… The other man exploded! He crumbled to dust! It couldn't have been the same elixir. It couldn't have…

"But you're alive…you're alive…" he muttered in absolute shock. Merlin nodded weakly, a dark shadow crossing his face in his own confusion and fear.

That glimmer of fear made him refocus and push away his own horror and incredulity, and he regained control of himself. He needed to be strong for Merlin, and that was only too easy now that Arthur's intense fury rose within him again.

When he discovered who did this…

With a snarl gracing his face, he said assertively, "Merlin, we have to get out of here. We can figure out what happened later, but we need to find the others and…"

Arthur trailed off as Merlin staggered weakly, but stubbornly to his feet, and Arthur followed in suit, once again grateful for the length of the chains.

Those strangely empty eyes of his looked more alive with the familiar shine of unwavering determination, and the pain was all too recognizable there until Merlin's eyelids slid over them once again. Of course, that did not fool Arthur: his bony shoulders were hunched inward as though he were carrying a heavy weight on his back and as though he was trying to pull into himself and make himself smaller.

Without opening his eyes, Merlin asked him with an unsteady voice that, along with his posture, betrayed the truth behind his carefully composed mask, "How long was I out?"

"About three hours…I thought you were dying," Arthur admitted in a whisper. "Your pulse…it was barely there, and you were as pale as a corpse…barely breathing. Your eyes were open until about a half-hour ago…" He paused, swallowing a painful lump in his throat at the memory of the screaming. Merlin did not need to know how terrified he had been or how each scream tore at his heart, but he did need to know about this: "They—they switched between gold and blue, but there was no magic, Merlin. None."

The kaleidoscopic eyes flew open and studied Arthur with an unflinching gaze. The only sign of the warlock's unease and surprise was the deep crevice between his eyebrows.

A new resolve settling in his eyes, the warlock turned from Arthur to the cell door, and he raised his hand, palm out. "The others?" he grunted.

Arthur began to pace. "I heard Gwaine yelling and cussing about the time they brought you in here; I think they're here, wherever here is…No, I know they're here. We must still be Livandir—they can't have brought us that far, considering the fact they took all three Knights together—but surely someone would have noticed by—"

Arthur was interrupted by Merlin, who gasped tearfully, "Tospringe!"

The King spun around, uncertain whether to smile in recognition of the spell or whether to be fearful of the tone in which it was incanted.

It was the latter. _Of course._

Merlin was hyperventilating and staring sightlessly at his palm, pure panic distorting his features and melding with the tears of pain and fear in his empty eyes…

Heart dropping to his feet, he rushed to his friend, frantically saying and then _yelling_, "Merlin? What's wrong? Merlin! Answer me, dammit!"

The warlock did not once look his way and instead threw up his arm again shouted, _"Tospringe_!"

Tears began to pour down Merlin's scarred cheeks, and his breathing grew even more panicked than before. His eyes seemed fastened to the door…

The door that had remained firmly closed.

Realization dawned on Arthur, and he took Merlin, who had started to yell random spells at the door and whose eyes flashed with that tainted gold color, which had begun to ebb in vibrancy and brilliance with each attempt at magic, by the shoulders, and with his heart in his throat, uninhibited tears sliding down his own face, said consolingly, "Merlin. Merlin, calm down."

Sobs raked Merlin's chest, and tears spilled uncontrollably. He shook like a leaf, but despite the pain that Arthur was only just beginning to realize that the warlock was in, he continued to shout like a crazed maniac at the door until he finally wore himself out—emotionally and physically—gave up, and could no longer stand.

Arthur caught him as he collapsed and lowered him to the floor.

"Arthur…Arthur," he breathed. He looked so lost…so lost.

"Shh, Merlin. It's okay," he tried to comfort, knowing full well that it was _not _okay. The emptiness in his blue eyes…A part of him had been stolen from him, and it was a part that Arthur knew he could not live without.

"No, no, Arthur. It's gone. I can't find it, Arthur," he blubbered.

"Merlin…" He bit his lip, struggling to swallow over the lump in his throat and struggling to see through his blurred vision. He couldn't bear seeing his friend like this, and though he couldn't fully understand what Merlin was feeling right now nor could he imagine what it would feel like to have something that was so much a part of you pulled forcefully away, he, being so closely tied with Merlin's magic in a way that the warlock himself wasn't, felt a fraction of it himself and sympathized with him in a way that he could not with any other…not even Guinevere.

Merlin's innate, ingrained magic, his identity and _soul_, was somehow, someway _gone_, and Arthur, the very reason for Merlin's magic, was the last remnant of his connection to it. So he hugged the young man tightly, knowing that all Merlin wanted right now was Arthur to be there…now that the one thing _always _there was no longer.

"My magic, Arthur," he whispered, hiding his eyes from Arthur's. The broken voice tore at the King's heart. "It's—nothing. Nothing, Arthur. Gone….gone…I'm gone. I'm nothing."

~…~

Arthur had never been more terrified, and that moment—the steady boulder, the advisor, the one _he _always leaned on for support, _the _Emrys, the most powerful sorcerer, most trusted friend, and the most brave man he knew _breaking down _before his eyes—it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Arthur did not know how long he remained holding Merlin or how long they stayed in the same position after Merlin's tears ran dry, but the horrible repercussions of this act of monstrosity had begun to sink in, as well as a leech of hopelessness. The emotional torture Merlin had survived….

Arthur would not forgive, and _never _would he forget.*

"Arthur."

The King, who had been waiting for Merlin to be comfortable enough to talk to him, was grateful that he sounded…not alright, but not broken, and looked at him, slightly afraid of what he might find there.

The elfin face was streaked with tear-stains, and those eyes, still empty and now slightly dulled with lost purpose, still glimmered with life and spirit. They were wounded eyes, still struggling to accept yet refusing to deny, but they were willing, as always, to serve, to cling to a little hope, to try to work around the obstacle, and most importantly, _to fight back_.

"You're chained to the floor."

Arthur bemusedly turned his wrists, careful not to knock Merlin with the heavy links, and looked at the iron. "That doesn't matter, Merlin."

He shook his head of tousled raven hair, but he did not comment further. "I'm sorry I broke down like that," Merlin whispered sheepishly, shifting a little in the King's arms. "Thank you for putting up with…it."

Arthur stared at Merlin incredulously, and he said with a small smile, "How is that, even after what's happened_, _you seem to think you can shoulder the blame? Merlin, you're completely _mad_."

The joke made Merlin's eyes glint with a hint of the old cheekiness and amusement. He looked comforted by the familiarity of Arthur's teasing and less embarrassed by what had passed between them, and before he could become crestfallen and try to explain to the King just exactly _how _it was his fault that they were in this predicament, he added softly, "I'm here for you, my friend."

The warlock smiled weakly, and as he tried to move out of Arthur's arms to support himself, he winced and withheld a grunt.

"Are you still in pain?" Arthur asked, brow creased with worry.

Merlin grimaced, but said truthfully, "It isn't as bad as it was. It comes and goes in waves."

He tried again to move from the King's arms, and though he nearly fell back into the King's chest, he managed to stabilize himself with the barest whimper and leant against the nearest wall, facing Arthur.

"I'm going to die," the warlock muttered, his eyes resolute and resigned.

"Don't say that," the King snapped feebly. "You can't assume—"

"This poison…it's not just suppressing my power, Arthur," Merlin explained gently with unwavering eyes. "It's—it's destroying it. Bit by bit. Without magic—" he shook his head "—Arthur, I _am _magic. You _know…_you know better than anyone. It is me."

The King bore his teeth in a savage, angry snarl. "No. You will not die, Merlin. Poisons have antidotes. They wouldn't have left you alive if they didn't have something to gain from you. They _must _have the antidote—it is their power over you."

"And you," Merlin added through clenched teeth. His eyes were blazing with fierce protectiveness and unbendable loyalty, and a flicker of that missing depth and light passed through them.

The significance of what the warlock said hit him in the gut. "Merlin, listen to me," he said forcefully and commandingly. "Under _no _circumstances are you going to put me before yourself. Not this time." He growled wordlessly, undeterred that stubborn edge now creeping into his warlock's gaze. "I won't let them do this—it's inhumane, what the bastards have done to you—I won't let them get away with it, and whether you like it our not, I will take _any _opportunity to get your magic back."

"I won't," Merlin said strongly. "My magic…There's nothing I want more than to have it back," he took a shaky breath and blinked rapidly, fighting tears. "But if it's too high a price, Arthur—"

The depths of this man's loyalty to him would never cease to amaze him nor would his strength ever cease to inspire him. He was willing to forgo the chance to regain his essence, his own spiritual life-source, for him, for Camelot, for others…His magic, Arthur knew, was far more than Merlin's life. It was everything.

"We _will _get the antidote out of their hands and into ours, I promise you, Merlin," Arthur interrupted, eyes burning compassionately for his other half. With a teasing smile, he added, "Then you can tear this dungeon down stone by stone and rip the leader of these psychotic madmen to shreds, and I'd sit and applaud you as you did it."

A chuckle escaped Merlin's lips, his face lit with tinge of hope (what had inspired it, Arthur could not fathom), and a little fire of genuine anger—Arthur felt a shiver run down his spine—stirred in his eyes, but he did not agree or disagree with the King, which made Arthur know that the warlock would stick to his own agenda (as usual) and which made him both concerned about what the idiot would do to keep him safe _and_ relieved that the loss of his magic did not mean that Merlin himself was lost.

"We're in this together, Merlin. Remember that."

"As if I could ever forget."

There was a tense silence, and Arthur asked, "What d'you suppose they're after?"

"It depends on who 'they' are, doesn't it?" Merlin asked sagely, repeating a previous thought that Arthur himself had had.

"Lot…"

"It's not Lot," Merlin instantly denied. "He would _never _use magic, particularly not this _Dark—"_ he spat the word "—magic. This is beyond him."

Arthur was going to mention the name 'Lybb,' which had previously haunted his mind during those horrible three hours nearly as much as Lot had, to his friend, but fear and rage abruptly gripped Arthur as he caught up on Merlin's train of thought.

How could he have been so _stupid? _Why didn't it occur to him earlier? Everything seemed more dangerous, more serious, now, and his heart sank with the realization that things were far worse than they appeared. Swearing crudely, he began, "Merlin, does _she _even—"

"Can you promise me that you won't make any stupid decisions on my behalf, Arthur?" Merlin interrupted, letting the suggestion hang ominously in the air. "You have Camelot and Gwen to think about. They need you."

He flinched and shot back, "And what are they without you?"

"…just—promise me."

He sighed. "Only if you promise the same."

"Dunno if I can do that," Merlin said insolently, eyes twinkling subtly. "Gaius tells me that 'stupid' isn't a part of my vocabulary."

Arthur laughed, silently amazed at his friend's incredible capability to shove his own problems aside and manage to find something to joke and laugh about, and Merlin's small grin contorted to an expression of pain. Despite his obvious efforts, a whimper clung in his throat.

"You alright?" the King asked worriedly, scanning his friend over.

Merlin hugged his knees tightly and nodded. "It is so strange," he said. "It's been there my whole life, but it's only now that it's gone that I realize how it _felt_."

"And how does it feel?" he asked, knowing that Merlin needed to talk, and even though he was sure that he wouldn't like the answer, he was insistent on giving him the chance to do so.

"Now? Like someone's scalping me or scaling me like a fish from the inside." Arthur winced at the emotionless, dark-humored description. Merlin's eyes, which were staring unblinkingly at the cell door, shattered like glass. "Where it was once…energy, life, warmth… spirit…It's so empty now."

_Energy_…The word tickled at his memory as he fiddled with the pendant Merlin had given him (he was immensely comforted that it hadn't been taken from him…yet), and suddenly, Arthur jumped to his feet and released a strangled cry of excitement.

Merlin started, cringed, and gave Arthur a look as though he was a madman. "You know, you should _warn _someone—"

"The stone, Merlin!" Arthur exclaimed, ignoring his friend. "Do you still have it on you? Maybe with its energy, your magic can overcome the poison!"

It was incredible what affect this had on Merlin. His empty eyes, which had been flashing with the missing light every so often during their talk, abruptly became _Merlin _again, and a real lopsided smile, one that had his now lively, animated eyes dancing and crinkling at the corners, broke across his face like the sun through storm clouds.

The warlock dug in his pocket, muttering cheerfully, "I can't believe I forgot this."

The philosopher's stone, as black and infinite as the night sky, sat on his palm, and Merlin stared at it for some time before the smile faded and his head cocked in utter bemusement.

Immediately, Arthur's elation felt as though it had been trampled over by a horse, and he was slightly surprised that Merlin didn't look more defeated after experiencing such disappointment and crushed hope. "Nothing?" he asked quietly.

"…No," Merlin said slowly, not tearing his eyes from the stone. "I—I can't sense its power anymore or reach for it with my mind and touch its reserves, but…I _think_ I—there's something—"

Loud crashing and jangling made the pair jump, and the warlock only just managed to shove the stone back into his pocket before their cell door was thrown open.

The instant Arthur saw that it was two men draped in those shadowy robes, his blood began to boil, and all of the frustration, fear, confusion, worry, and _anger_ he felt in the past four hours caught up to him in a massive wave.

It did not escape his notice that Merlin's gaze was fixated on one man's hand, which was wrapped in bloody bandages. Arthur could see in the set of his mouth some satisfaction, and he, grimly proud of his thin friend, suspected that Merlin had injured the man. However, there was also an intense amount of fear gathering in Merlin's tense face, which made Arthur come to the realization that these were the two that attacked him and forced that damn poison into him…

And that just pushed him over the edge. Hatred more powerful than anything he'd ever felt before tinged his vision red and pooled into his mind.

He lunged forward only to be yanked painfully back by his chains. "Bastards! Cowardly bastards! Who leads you? Which one of you's the damn son of a bitch—!"

Of course, both men had the nerve to _giggle _drunkenly at him, and Arthur stopped struggling to glare heatedly at them.

"What do you want?" Merlin's voice was sharp, dangerous, and cold, and the King snapped his head to look at the warlock, who had nothing but an emotionless mask on his face to contradict the tone of loathing and disgust and to disguise the quaver of fear.

"Sorcerer brat's to come with us," the man with the bitten hand said dreamily.

"Over my dead body," Arthur snarled protectively. _What the hell was wrong with them?_

"Just to talk, just to talk," the other sang reassuringly.

"Not without me."

They ignored him, and carefully sidestepping around the chained King, they grasped Merlin by the upper arms.

"Don't you _dare_ lay a hand on him!" Arthur shouted.

"Arthur," Merlin said softly. "It's okay."

Their blue eyes met, and seeing the strength and reassurance, as well as the intense desire to finally understand what was going on, in his friend's eyes, Arthur nodded slowly and reluctantly backed down.

"Just let your _puppet-master*_ know," Arthur said threateningly to the two, "that if he hurts Merlin, I will kill him."

One turned creepily toward him and smiled. His eyes seemed to harden and snap from whatever dream-land he had been in back into reality. "At least the sorcerer already senses how we want to play our game, Pendragon. I've heard you both look after each other. That might save you both, even if it won't be enough save what matters—in the end." He cackled hideously, "But then I've heard that you both don't know how or when to shut up, either, and that, I can guarantee, _will_ kill."

Merlin and Arthur exchanged a glance, but the moment was cut short as the other man, humming contentedly, pushed Merlin to the door and led him out.

In that instant Arthur was distracted by their exit, the crazy man kicked him in the ribs and knocked him flat. The wind was knocked from him, and he struggled to regain his breath.

"If I were you, Pendragon," the enemy suggested thoughtfully, leaning down to whisper in his ear, "I'd learn to play the game and learn fast. Even if you're just a pawn, you can't escape this game…not when _he_'s the main player." The eyes slid to Merlin's retreating back hungrily and greedily.

Arthur, his heart sinking, spat a nasty insult in the Old Tongue, and with the giggles and the manic smile returning, the black-clothed man kicked Arthur once again before he could attack him and followed his companion and Merlin out.

Alone in the stinking cell, all Arthur could do was replay those words in his mind and struggle to retain a sliver of hope in this completely hopeless situation.

If it really was Morgana, with Merlin's magic missing…what in the world could they do?

He had no real plan, no real ideas, no real knowledge of what would happen….not until Merlin returned…

It felt as though a ghost was pacing over his grave.

* * *

><p>*Yes, I did steal that from Mordred... ;)<p>

*I thank angelrider13's last review for the inspiration for that little "puppet-master" insult. :P

AN: I hope this was alright. Parts felt off, but it's the best I got. I apologize for any and all mistakes and would love it if you could point anything I missed out to me. Until next time!

Oz out.


	13. Heart of Gold

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: *peers in nervously* Erm...hi. This is inexcusable, I know. I haven't updated in NEARLY a month (APs, awesome rock concerts, swim meets...I can't believe where the month went!), and this is what I give you... a broken promise and a pathetic excuse for a mini-chapter. *sighs* This was supposed to be the beginning of the chapter I DID promise you, but, since this is prom weekend and I'm going to be out of town and since this did not really fit with what I wanted the next chapter to be and I simply couldn't toss it out...well, here we are. :)

Nothing of plot here...or much of _anything_, to be perfectly honest, but there is a little bit of BAMF!Merlin.

Enjoy:

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><p>"<em>Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens." –<em>Gimli (The Fellowship of the Ring: JRR Tolkien)

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><p><strong>Heart of Gold<strong>

From the very moment of the great Emrys' birth, he had had golden _aura_—and it would be gold forever and always. Excepting the momentous time it fully recognized and accepted its other half and its other half fully recognized and accepted it in a bond solely unique to the Once and Future King and Emrys, his _aura_, the golden _aura,_ was one of the rare, rare few that never did and never would once alter its color, and that truly was a treasure.

For not all men knew what they were put on this Earth to do and who they were put on this Earth to be, and not all of them found their way. It was a trick of Destiny's to tinker with such matters, but Destiny left fingerprints on her evidence and _always_ had a reason for her meddling.

But why did Destiny chose this farm boy of Ealdor? Of all people to be chosen to bear the burden of the gold? To carry the weight of the Emrys? _Why him?_

_There was always a reason._

~…~

Merlin could not recall the number of times his mother had drawn him into her lap (or into her embrace as he grew), and, with one gentle hand ruffling his unruly locks and the other holding _his_ hand to his heartbeat, had told him to never forget—never forget his heart of gold.

As a child, he had never really understood what she meant and had often spent the night awake, listening to the night's song and wondering what it was his mother saw in him that he couldn't see in himself and how it was she could see something more than he could.

Even so, he had not forgotten nor did he ever intend to forget, and without realizing it, his golden heart only grew and shone ever brighter.

Even as a young boy, he had had a forgiving nature. He always had believed in second chances and had never failed to offer them…but not before expressing his disapproval of or annoyance with previous behavior with a few quick, witty jabs or words of wisdom, which were always followed by a heart-felt, lopsided smile, in an attempt to teach the offender not to make the same mistake twice.

He had always been the boy that wanted to give a shoulder to cry on, a shoulder to lean on, or even to dream on.* He had always been the type who wanted nothing more than to make others smile, to better himself and his powers to make a difference in others' lives, and to offer his help in any and all situations that might require it or deserve it. Also, having been hurt so much himself, he hated the idea of hurting anyone—unless, of course, they threatened those he loved and those he was loyal to.

He had always been this way. He had always been the one to help a beaten boy up to his feet, the one to stand up to bullies, the one who took his lot, whether it be good or bad, with smiles, the one who offered kindness when no other would. Yet, above all, he had always had possessed the calm, thoughtful, and cheerful temperament that made it nearly impossible for him to get truly angry or ever truly _hate_ another.

Sure, since moving to Camelot and meeting a prat of a Pendragon, his temper, patience, and control had been tested and tried to the utter limit, but, despite the foes he had faced, the power he had gained, the losses and pain he had experienced, he never failed in the noble duty he had set himself nor faltered in his character—his 'heart of gold.'

But this—what they had done to him and what he had seen them do to Arthur—_this _was inexcusable. Unforgivable.

And bitter rage—real wrath and anger more potent than he had ever known before—stormed in the warlock's heart like a hurricane.

They took his magic.

He felt like a stranger in his own body…or perhaps it was his body felt like a stranger to him?

Whichever. After all, was there really a difference when either way…his magic—all that entailed, including his _aura_-reading powers _and _Dragon-Lord abilities—was inaccessible and…_gone_?

After what they had done to him, after stealing away something that was nearly as vital to his existence as was his blood and the heart pumping it, after sealing away that one section of his mind that distinguished him from all others of his kind, after _sucking _away his soul, spirit, and life force, after reducing him…Merlin might not have known it then, but it was a damn miracle that his mind had not broken, that he retained his sense of identity and self, that the man, the man that no one had ever expected to see or know, _behind_ the magic had not been locked away with his powers.

Any other sorcerer would have been lost the moment the foul leech entered his body and began to suck away at his magic.

It was still there—the poison; how could he _not_ feel it? It was the polar opposite of his magic, and it was…_wrong_. All wrong.

He, however, could not help but feel some relief. Instead of the same excruciating flashes of pain that accompanied every movement he made and every breath he took during those first few miserable hours, he felt waves of heat so intense through his body that it felt _cold_, making him convulsively and uncontrollably shiver. The dizzying nausea and rushes of pain only returned when he consciously searched for his powers for reassurance that they really were _gone_ and he wasn't just _missing _them—because there was some stubborn part of him that still denied it—and when he innately reached for them in self-defense…to protect himself from the foreign Darkness that had been forced into him.

Though there was less pain now, there was no denying it. It was killing him. Slowly chewing away at the very last strands of hope, sanity, and energy in his body. The ever-watchful guardian, the ever-present golden shield…fading.

But, to Merlin, it didn't matter so much that he was dieing when it was _Arthur _who was in such extreme danger now.

Although the magnitude of the warlock's anger was great, parading sinisterly at the forefront of his mind was fear. He was defenseless, powerless, _useless_. Without his magic, there was no escape, no pathway to freedom… He _couldn't _fight. He _couldn't _protect Arthur or the Knights or even _Camelot_, and _that _is what had his heart sinking further and further. Against this threat, they were vulnerable. Completely and utterly vulnerable and weak. The only thing he had left as a weapon was his festering anger and growing determination.

And that was only thanks to Arthur.

For a moment in the cell, he _had _lost himself. He _had_ broken down—to the basest of pathetic creatures—and exposed more raw emotion than he had ever had in his entire lifetime. Everything that made him 'Merlin' had been diminished and crushed, but, with an intense supportive sensitivity and completely nonjudgmental, compassionate _understanding_, his other half had kept him afloat. The King was keeping Merlin going—keeping him from falling into that widening pit of defeat and hopelessness, keeping his head above the water. He had _shared_ Merlin's pain in every way and had shown him that he was not alone, and everything that he said to the distressed warlock, the tone in which he said it, the look in his eyes, his steady embrace… it was a reminder of everything that he fought for and everything that he was.

For Arthur, he would fight.

And despite his terror, despite the emotional torture he had been submitted to, despite the fact that he could not use his magic, Merlin was _not _going to let these bastards touch Arthur or think they had won; he was _not _going to let them see him broken or unhinged…

They wanted Merlin Emrys? Fine. They got him. They might have gotten the Emrys' power under their control; they might, in part, have gained some control over the situation when they effectively made him fear them, but they certainly had no control over Merlin's rebellious, cheeky insolence, unyielding stubbornness and courage, fierce loyalty, and growing rage. They thought it had been forced out of him? Broken him? No. They got him all.

He would make _damn _sure they regretted it.

* * *

><p>AN: *A reference to some lyrics from "Keep the Faith" (Bon Jovi).<p>

Alrighty, now that that's over with... the real next chapter is in the works (there is already promise of quite a bit of whump, and because the dialogue is proving to be a challenge, I do need the time to make it good so that all of that suspense I built up doesn't go to waste), and since graduation is just 'round the corner, I'm sure this fic'll be wrapped up before you know it. ;)

Quick shout out to OceanMintLeaves: You cannot imagine how much "War" (by Poets of the Fall, people! Incredible song!) is helping me get motivated to write the hardest part of this fic thus far. Thank you again for recommending it to me!

Oz out. I won't be gone too long this time. :)


	14. Part I: Villain's Smile

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: This is LONG overdue, I know. :) Now, this was supposed to be longer, but after some deliberation (and after a reminder from carinims01 that this was indeed a possibility), I have split this chapter into two parts. This one, unfortunately, only has only a fraction of the whump I had planned for this chapter (the larger fraction will come in the second part), and since the second part is still giving me trouble, is still incomplete, and is a long way from being satisfactory enough to post, this is what you're getting. ;)

Thank you all for your support and reviews, everyone. This story's nearly at 200 reviews, which is really, really incredible to me because that's more than what PMMP has and that's getting incredibly near SMN's count. :D

Thank you, carinims01, for requesting a Knight's scene multiple times. It was refreshing to write, and I hope you enjoy it. And another special thank you goes to OceanMintLeaves-thank you again for the supportive pixie dust and for ranting about Legend of Korra with me: it effectively prevented me from tearing my hair out. ;P

Chapter title courtesy of the Hamlet quote I used. Please don't get TOO angry with me, and enjoy:

* * *

><p>"For there to be betrayal, there would have to have been trust first."<br>― Katniss (Suzanne Collins, _The Hunger Games_)

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><p><strong>Part I: Villain's Smile<strong>

Merlin winced as thick ropes dug into his wrists as the black-clothed man—was it unsurprising that it was the one he had bitten?—tightened his bonds. His heart constricted in their presence, but he would sooner bite off his big toe than let them see his fear of them or their inhuman, dead eyes.

Pushing aside his fear and hatred and shifting his shoulders uselessly, the warlock smirked in a nonchalant, but slightly amused tone, "Is that really necessary? I'm not going anywhere."

The beetle-black eyes glinted dully, and the creepy grin beginning to sneak onto the man's face was the only warning Merlin had before he sent a stinging back-handed blow to his face. One of the man's rings caught the skin above his eyebrow, cutting him jaggedly and drawing blood.

Merlin stumbled backward into the other man only to be pushed forward. With his hands tied behind his back, he couldn't regain balance, and he fell, only just managing to twist his body so that he wouldn't face-plant into the stone floor.

A shock laced up his hip bone and shoulder as he landed, but before he could feel the pain, one of the men, now giggling, grabbed a fistful of his cloak and dragged him forcefully to his feet.

Blood ran down his temple and into his eye, and the warlock coughed after the pressure around his neck had been relieved and spat a mouthful of blood as he raised his eyes to meet the enemies' triumphant gazes and threatening fists.

Knowing it probably wasn't prudent to do so and completely prepared to face the consequences of doing so, Merlin said insolently, "I'm getting the feeling I did something to offend you."

He was rewarded for his sarcasm with another hard blow to the head and sneering laughter.

With a diabolical smile and unfocused eyes, he, slightly incoherent, mumbled musingly, "You do know that if you keep hitting me, I'm not going to be lucid enough to hear your leader's glorious victory gloat. I'm sure that's going to be his favorite part of this, so I don't suppose he would be too happy with you for ruining his big moment."

Their laughter abruptly stopped, and after they blinked at him for a moment in mild astonishment, they swung their blank gazes to each other.

Despite his ringing head, Merlin studied their reaction and frowned, realizing that they expressed no confusion or an air of arrogant and mocking superiority when he referred to their master as a male… therefore proving that their master was most likely _not _a female.

_Very astute, Merlin_, the groggy warlock told himself sarcastically.

Suddenly, that eerie, high-pitched, giddy giggling erupted from the unbitten man while the other, Merlin's special torturer, released raucous, cruel, cold chuckles. The cacophony made the warlock, who felt a shudder that had nothing to do with the poison slide down his spine, flinch and cringe reflexively from them. He swallowed hard against his now-parched throat, biting back the creeping terror and horror at the sound of the two laughs, both of which sounded so different yet similar.

There was nothing behind their laughter. No feeling, no emotion…absolutely nothing. Completely hollow and empty.

"My, my, isn't that fascinating?" The one he had bitten said darkly, raising his voice an octave as he might have were he cooing to an infant. Merlin detected the smallest glimmer of genuine interest beneath the emotionless shadow drawn over his dark eyes, and when the man took hold of Merlin's chin, he, fighting panic once again, tried to jerk out of his grasp with little success.

"You're every bit as amusing as I heard you were, you know that, _sorcerer_?" he continued. His friend giggled, and with a smirk, he squeezed Merlin's cheeks, shook the warlock's head back and forth, and whispered airily, "Wit, boy, will only keep you and your King alive so long."

After the man violently thrust the warlock away from him, Merlin, his blood boiling, refused to rub his sore jaw and retorted instantly, "And hiding behind threats will only keep _you _alive so long. Would you like to bet who wins this race?"

The dark eyes flashed murderously, and without a sound, the man pressed his forearm to Merlin's throat and forcefully shoved him into the dungeon wall, pinning him there and cutting off his air.

In vain, the warlock gasped to breathe and struggled against the man's arm, and he instinctively reached for his magic, only to feel a waterfall of pain and nausea crash upon him. His knees weakened, his face paled, and the floor and ceiling reeled and spun around him… Merlin collapsed, falling limp to the floor and fighting the urge to cry out and noisily and pathetically gulp down air.

"Oops." The man _tsk_'d mockingly and knelt so that he could whisper directly into the warlock's ear. "I wouldn't be so cocky, _sorcerer…_especially with your magic gone and no one around to save you. I have to admit, though: your strength of will is admirable, but I'm rather disappointed. I would have thought you would be more…well, _more_."

Before Merlin could catch his breath or subdue the rolling, rushing waves of sickening wooziness and agony, the man wrenched the dazed warlock to his feet once more, and tightly gripping his upper arms, he and his still giggly companion none-too-gently led him—stumbling—through the maze of corridors.

Gray, black, brown, and orange swirled and whirled about him, making his head throb and twinge, and feeling as though he had snorted a liter of water up his nose the pressure and pain in his head was so great, he forced himself to focus on the shifting floor and his funny-looking boots in a stubborn attempt to keep from falling because, as wonderful as the prospect of unconsciousness sounded, he knew he'd only be dragged back to his feet just as well as he knew that he _needed _to stay conscious. So, all in all, he was quite grateful that with every step, his vision began to sharpen, his mind began to find its footing again, and the pressure and fire in his head began to subside.

He recovered and became fully aware of his surroundings the moment the threesome stopped in front of a double set of doors.

"I would ask you to behave," Merlin's oppressor hissed as he began to open the door, "but I know you have yet to learn how to behave."

"I'd rather be chained in these dungeons the rest of my life than be enslaved as you are," Merlin snarled in response.

Twisting his expression into a grotesque smirk, the man cut through the rope binding the warlock's hands,(_Really, if they were just going to cut it off, what was the point? _Merlin wondered in annoyance)_, _being sure to nick the flesh of his wrists in the process, and whispered jeeringly, "Would you now?"

With that, the doors were thrown open, and Merlin was sent sprawling into the center of the gloomy circular room. The door slammed behind him, and he was left alone.

Ignoring the new bruises forming and eyes widening in horror at the sight above him, he quickly rolled onto his knees and gaped.

He was in what could be no better described as a torture chamber.

The only light came from two feeble torches at the front of the room, and despite the darkness, Merlin could see it all. Things unimaginable. Weapons and pieces of twisted iron he had never seen before and had never thought existed. Chains and ropes hung from the ceiling, whips of varying length, texture, and thickness, some covered with burs of metal, coffins filled with finely sharpened spikes, welding irons, knives and daggers of all shapes and sizes…

Vials upon vials of that poison sat like a silent vigil on one of the long benches.

In his horrified astonishment of the torture instruments, Merlin didn't notice that, in a shadowy corner—so dark, so cold, so damp, so dirty—was a man, his head of salt-and-peppered hair lank with sweat and flopping lifelessly into his collarbone, hanging by his wrists from the ceiling until a low, whimpering groan reached his ears.

The warlock's heart stopped and bile rose to his throat when he located the source of the noise and saw that the entire torso was covered in smears and droplets of crimson…

_"Lot_," Merlin choked, appalled by the act of sadistic cruelty, hateful derisiveness, and the most disgusting, _barbaric_ humor…

Some monster had carved a Druid symbol into his chest.

"No…" he whispered angrily.

The protector and physician in Merlin immediately rose to the surface, and even though his limbs trembled so violently he had qualms that he'd be steady enough to support himself, he found hidden reserves of strength, forced himself to his feet, and lunged to the Escetian king.

As he drew nearer to the king, he hesitated and bit his lip at the gruesome sight that looked all the more gruesome up close. He quickly evaluated him and saw that, other than the _artful_ cuts on his chest—cuts that were not life-threatening and torturously shallow yet skillfully deep enough to leave noticeable scarring—there was no injury beyond that of some bruising on his arms and ribs and one inflamed burn on his shoulder.

"_Bastards_," the warlock cursed, his dry throat constricting with wrathful and concerned tears.

Much to Merlin's surprise, Lot sighed again at the sound of his voice and weakly lifted his jade eyes, and they, delirious and blurry with pain, stared at him sightlessly before growing wide with animalistic fear.

"It's Merlin, Lot," Merlin reassured firmly, his heart wrenching with the sight of a so prideful a man reduced to this cowering creature. "It's Merlin," he repeated more gently.

After a moment, Lot's dulled eyes lighted with recognition, and trying to smile reassuringly, the warlock threw his gaze frantically to the manacles holding the king's wrists above his head. In the poor lighting of the room, he could not see them well, and he reached up and hurriedly trailed his fingers across the cold metal until he hit a little uneven bump.

The inevitable key hole. Of course.

"Mer—" Lot began to croak breathily.

"Don't," Merlin cautioned, casting his eyes about and searching through the metal around him in search of an irresponsibly placed key. He pursed his lips and withheld a growl of frustration. "I need to get you down," he mumbled quickly, desperately. "Save your strength."

Not bothering to heed the younger man's words—or perhaps not even registering them—Lot persisted. "Something…" he exhaled. His words began to slur. "…Neeta know."

Recognizing the deteriorating coherency of his speech as a bad sign and realizing that Lot _knew _who, what, and perhaps even why, Merlin paused in his search and whirled to Lot. "Stay with me, Lot," he said. "You need to tell me what you know. Who did this to you?"

Lot's uneven breathing hitched as his eyes rolled back into his head, and when they snapped back for one second of complete clarity, he only had time to lock his pained gaze with Merlin's before he shuddered and succumbed to the pain of his injuries and finally fell unconscious.

Merlin spat a curse under his breath, and the beast of anger reared its head once again. Snarling incomprehensibly and full of self-loathing for not being able to do anything to help, he once again began his vain search for the key through the rest of the nameless metal objects around him…

The words of a snake: "Looking for this, _Emrys_?"

Merlin stiffened in recognition, and trying desperately to make excuses for the owner of the cynical voice and knowing bitterly that there was none to make, he closed his eyes and battled to overcome the keen sting of sadness, disappointment, hurt—all of the harbingers and symptoms of betrayal.

For one may smile and smile and still be a villain. (1) He had _known_. He had seen this and had dismissed it, hadn't he? His first impression…never again would he dismiss it so readily. Charisma, charming demeanor, good-humor, bravery—weapons that had blinded him. They all had been blinded.

Stormy eyes, face, and heart mercilessly hardening to stone, Merlin turned to face the traitor and said with a tone colder and more dangerous than any mid-winter blizzard, "Why, Kay?"

~…~

Percival clutched his stomach and cringed sheepishly as his stomach gurgled loudly. Both Gwaine, who had finally rejoined them from the lovely land of unconsciousness, and Lancelot's eyes flew to the giant of a Knight and gaped incredulously.

"Are you bloody serious?" Gwaine mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"Only _you_ would be hungry at a time like this, Perce," Lancelot commented, trying to smile and failing.

"And didn't we _just_ have a feast?"

Drawing his knees to his chest, Percival rolled his eyes and glared at the floor. "Would you care to remind me how _long _ago that feast was?"

Gwaine scowled, and Lancelot sighed softly, his dark eyes following Percival's to the hay-covered floor.

The three of them had no sense of time in their small, stinky cell, and it felt like a whole lifetime ago that they had heard Arthur call out to them and even _longer _since they had a seat at Lot's table. The seconds that ticked diligently away felt like hours and still managed to slip by twice as fast, and as he and Lancelot, both in a bit of a mild, mindless shock at how easily and quickly they had been captured and subdued, waited for Gwaine to regain consciousness, their conversation, which consisted of much useless cussing, raging, and grumbling in concern and anger at Gwaine's state and their predicament, had hardly helped matters.

During the time, the two had frequently shared loaded looks about the unsaid, but otherwise, the two had avoided what they should have been discussing—most of which included their worries for their King, whom was locked away in an unknown somewhere _without _Merlin, and their warlock himself, whom they had not heard from or seen since they had said their goodnights gods knew how longago. Instead, Lancelot and Percival, stewing with their own thoughts and allowing their respective companion to do the same, had been trying to convince themselves that there was a way out of this and had been waiting in the hopes that they _wouldn't_ have to talk about their worries and that either help or a brilliant idea would come to them.

And so, they waited and waited and waited…

When they had no weapons nor any real knowledge of the physician's craft beyond that of how to patch up a wound well enough to _get _to a trained physician before passing out, even the hard-headed, intelligent, restless, and creative Knights knew that waiting was all they really _could _do.

But now that Gwaine was fine—awake and semi-lucid—there was to be no more sidestepping, no more waiting for some sign from their enemy…or even their two separated friends…

"It's been _too_ long," Percival answered his previous question. "Why hasn't something happened yet?"

"I keep expecting—I mean, I'm surprised that Merlin hasn't shown up yet with Arthur in tow and obliterated our door to tell us to come join the party," Gwaine muttered jokingly with a shaky grin.

"_Exactly_," Percival mumbled, letting the word hang ominously in the air.

It went without being said: it took _far _more than a blow to the head to knock Merlin down, and it took even more to _hold _him down. The warlock, Percival knew quite well, was not one to trifle with and could make a very formidable and _powerful_ enemy.

It was almost impossible to see Merlin under anyone's power but his own, and it frightened Percival beyond imagining to even think about what it was that was holding their friend now when he knew that the warlock's magic and loyalty surpassed all others'.

That left only one thing to consider: there was something far worse at work here. Something far beyond their understanding.

"I don't like this," Lancelot said, leaping to his feet and beginning to pace furiously. "He could be anywhere! He could be being tortured right now—how else would they be able to keep him from using his magic?"

Percival winced imperceptibly, an echo of fear from some long-forgotten memory poking at his insides. Fuzzy, half-formed images flashed before his eyes, images of blood and magic and faceless men and a shattering sky blacker than black above the destruction and carnage… Something important…

"Hell, he could even be dead!"

"Don't say that!" Percival snapped suddenly, returning to the present. "Merlin's fine. He has to be."

Lancelot gave him a tormented look. "Why else would they separate him from us and Arthur?" he asked with devastating logic.

Gwaine growled. "If they so much as touch a single hair on his head…"

"Why lock us up in the first place? Who wants us out of the way?" Percival countered, ignoring the roguish Knight's threatening. "I think those're the questions we need to answer before we ask that one."

"Lot—"

"Was far too genuinely happy to be drafting a _peace _treaty with Camelot to do this," Percival finished.

"Yes, I was going to say that he couldn't have drawn us here under false pretenses."

"How can you be so sure?" Gwaine asked, raising a brow at Lancelot's tone of confidence.

"He's most definitely not a good actor, and he wears his heart on his sleeve—I mean, isn't it obvious? He can hardly hide any of his disdain for Merlin, and, as Perce said, he was _glad _to be in negotiation with us, despite his disapproval of Merlin and Camelot's tolerance for magic. Remember, too—he did take some of Merlin's advice into consideration at the feast."

Percival and Gwaine mumbled their appreciation for the point, and Percival offered gruffly, "I might not like Lot or his attitude towards magic, but Merlin and Arthur both trust him."

Gwaine snorted. "As if _Arthur's _trust in Lot has any weight or bearing whatsoever in this debate. Merlin's? Yes. Arthur's? Hell no."

Percival and Lancelot's lips twitched into a weak smile at the joke, and Lancelot said in a wry, weary voice, "Well, I suppose that's narrowed it down."

"Hardly!" Gwaine exclaimed agitatedly. "Anyone inside or outside this damn castle—"

"Sarcasm, Gwaine."

"…Oh."

Percival ground his teeth together and burst out, "Damn it! There're too many factors, too many unknowns…"

"What _do _we know?" Lancelot prompted.

"That we're in some serious trouble right now."

"_Thank you, _Gwaine. That was incredibly insightful."

"Now, _that _was sarcasm."

Rolling his eyes, Lancelot whispered, "Judging by our separation and the facts—even _without _those judgments—I know that they most likely want information from us, and they will want to use us against Arthur to get it from him."

"But what about Merlin?" Gwaine asked. "If that were the case and they did want Arthur to suffer for whatever reason—and make him break and spill Camelot's secrets—why take Merlin away separately and leave Arthur behind in the cells?" He paused and added bluntly, "Now, if I was an evil, conniving bastard out for Camelot's secrets, I'd take Arthur to _see _Merlin—hell, I'd take him to see _all _of us—being tortured to encourage him to talk and only stop when he _did _talk, but this isn't the case, is it?"

A sudden epiphany and the full recollection of the memory that haunted Percival hit him like a sword stab, and he froze, a horrifying chill running down his spine. _Oh, gods…_

"Maybe because it's exactly the opposite!" he gasped.

"What?" Lancelot and Gwaine echoed.

"He could just as well be alone in a different cell," Percival muttered quickly, thinking out loud. "But I don't believe that."

"What're you getting at?" Gwaine interrupted impatiently. "That's completely redundant, and it doesn't tell us anything that we haven't figured already."

"Don't you see?" Percival exclaimed, his stomach dropping further and heart clenching more tightly with every passing second. "They want _Merlin_. They want him more than they do Arthur. And what can Merlin give that Arthur cannot?"

Lancelot's eyes grew wide, and he whispered, "His magic."

"And if they can't get it?" Percival suggested quietly.

"They—they'd kill him," Lancelot choked. "Leaving Camelot…leaving Arthur…Someone—no, Morgana could slip in so easily without him to match her power."

"But Merlin'd _never_ let them—"

"They have _us, _Gwaine! They have _Arthur_! And if I'm right, they might even havehis_ magic_!" Percival said desperately, a lump forming in his throat. "You know how protective Merlin is of us all; you know what sacrifices he'd be willing to make for us and Camelot, and if the fate of Camelot was at stake—" He shook his head. "And if they do have his magic—_another _thing to hold over him, _another _way to keep him from foiling their plans, whatever those may be…he won't survive long. Something must give; sacrifices must be made."

"_Have his magic_?" Lancelot and Gwaine repeated in shock.

"Think about it. D'you really think Merlin'd let them close enough to him to torture him? No matter how hurt he was, even if they knocked him unconscious and weakened him beforehand, he'd still magic himself out before the torturers could so much as take that first step towards him. They must be containing his powers somehow. It's the only explanation for his absence and inaction—why it's been _hours _since we've been thrown in here without outside contact."

"Is it even possible?" Lancelot asked.

"You know I know more about magic than I let on." Percival closed his eyes and sighed shakily. "And you must promise me to never speak of this again in other company."

When the two Knights nodded, Percival continued softly, "The Druids would tell all kinds of stories; they have their own history, their own wars…I just remembered one story that I was never supposed to hear and one that I really wish I never had heard. It was a dark tale, one not meant for children."

He chuckled without humor. "It seems a bit ironic now. My whole village had been forbidden from contacting our Druid neighbors that week because they were hosting a special gathering, one that happened once every decade or so, that outsiders were very strictly not allowed to be a part of. It was a sacred ritual of remembrance for the ancestors who first fought against Dark magic's corruption in ancient times. My mates and—well, they got caught. I should say that I alone snuck into their camp that night and found myself in the middle of this story. I—I don't know how they didn't notice me. Perhaps they did. Perhaps they meant for me to be there. Perhaps they wanted me to hear. I don't know. Doesn't matter now.

"It was rather gruesome and bloody legend about the Dark Wars—back in the age when the usage of Dark magic was completely unrestricted and when Dark magic was the most commonly practiced branch of magic. Yes, there were such times, and let me tell you: I remember feeling nothing short of terrified when I heard them described.

"The details are unclear, but one major point has remained with me: the main cause of the trouble was two major clan-leaders—Sorcerer Kings, if you will—Nyrid and Caden. Nyrid, the warrior leading the resistance that fought against the abuse of Dark magic, of course, had been Bound by the opposition, Caden, who had been jealous of the power that exceeded his own and who had begun to become incredibly fearful that he would lose the war. It was a wild card, a desperate wild card, but he succeeded, and by being Bound, Nyrid had been enslaved to Caden's every whim and will.

"They say Binding is one of the Darkest, most evil, most dangerous of magics and that the Binder is more likely to destroy himself and his victim than actually succeed. This was why they held this gathering every decade—to remember the consequences of endeavoring in such magic—and why, after the Dark Wars ended, most of these spells and enchantments had been hidden and why they have been guarded with more ferocity than even the great Prophecies."

"What _is _Binding exactly, Perce?" Lancelot whispered.

"From what I could tell from the story, Binding is done in steps. Very painful, lethal steps. One had to suppress the other's powers before the ceremony, which, if done incorrectly or too hastily, could easily kill the victim, and then there was the ceremony itself…in the tale, the soul of Nyrid was very nearly destroyed when it became the unconditional servant to its new master—its Binder. He might have had his magic granted back once the enchantments were complete, but he was no longer himself, no longer _anyone or anything_. He was just…there, but not there—like a ghost—and only there to do his Binder's bidding.

"Nyrid became the greatest weapon for the side he had previously fought so fiercely against, and he had been forced to destroy his own people and his own cause. In the end, miraculously, he found enough of himself to end his own life. In doing so, he prevented himself from doing anything more to aid Caden and those that favored rule by Dark magic, and his sacrifice turned the tide of the Dark Wars. If not for him, the world as we know it would be a _very _different place."

Completely dumfounded, Lancelot and Gwaine sat and stared at Percival in silence before Gwaine said softly, "You really don't think that—if these rituals are as heavily guarded as you suggest, there's no reason to assume…"

"All I know," Percival responded hoarsely, "is that legends become taller over time and are not by any means true accounts, but…that doesn't mean that there isn't truth there. The spells and rituals for Binding…yes, Gwaine, I _highly _doubt anyone could have discovered them, but my reason for telling you this story is to show you that it's not impossible. That there must be other spells, other ways, to prevent one from using magic, and for Merlin—"

Percival was interrupted by the unmistakable soft clicking of boots, the clanking of a key ring, and the thudding of wood. Donning sober, serious, and guarded masks, the Knights turned to the door, and the two that weren't on their feet rose—Gwaine a little shakily so—to greet their visitors and their captors.

"Stand down," Lancelot said from the corner of his mouth. "Fighting will do no good now. Be patient, watch, and listen."

The only sign that Percival and Gwaine acknowledged Lancelot's wisdom was a visible tightening of the jaw and mouth, and they stood with straight shoulders as the door was wrenched open.

It was the man Cadwy and two men robed in black. They stood in the doorway with triumphant cockiness—folded arms, smirks, and all. Cadwy twirled the key ring on his index finger lazily, and his dung-colored eyes, one of which, Percival couldn't help but notice, was set lower on his face than the other, roved over the threesome slowly.

With his head cocking and smirk deepening, he looked slyly toward his companions and gestured them into the room.

The three stiffened defensively, but the thug was quick to say, "I'd behave meself 'f I was ya. Wou'n't wanna appear uncivil in fron' of 'is mos' ro'al 'ighness, now woujya?"

Cadwy stepped aside and with a dramatic flourish of his arm presented the hallway where a gagged _Arthur, _his hands bound behind his back and brilliant blue eyes flashing with an undeniable rage that would have put even Uther's temper to shame, was struggling against the man holding him.

Upon hearing the condescending use of his title, Arthur's head snapped up to meet the shocked gazes of his Knights, and those piercing blue eyes softened for a fraction of a second, revealing to them what lay beneath the surface. Those eyes were unreadable, yet awfully clear; strong and determined, yet vulnerable and afraid. It was a look that Percival recognized and one that the Once and Future King only saved for times like this…times when his other half—his soul-brother—was in mortal danger.

"C'mon, then," Cadwy sneered, taking advantage of the moment of stillness. With the two in black slipping behind Gwaine and Percival, Cadwy bound and gagged Lancelot just as he had the Camelotian King, who warned them, as Lancelot had, with his eyes to keep their heads down for now.

Once they were secured, Cadwy ruffled each Knights' hair mockingly, grabbed Lancelot, and pushed the party ungracefully out of the cell.

While Lancelot and Gwaine nearly fell over each other, Percival was roughly pushed into Arthur, and as Cadwy laughed like a baying donkey, the two shared mildly exasperated looks that morphed into mischievous and livid ones—ones that guaranteed eventual retaliation. Arthur's very obviously said, 'I'll hold him' as Percival's agreed, adding, 'And I'll punch.'

_Then we'll switch, _Percival thought wryly.

Everyone had righted themselves by the time young King's eyes, leaking vengeance and spitting flames, broke from Percival's and turned to glare at their oppressors.

"_So _sorry 'bout tha', me Lord. Li'l klu'zy an' clumsy, I am," Cadwy taunted.

Obviously sick of the man, Arthur swung his leg out to clip the thug in the back of the knee, but Cadwy managed to avoid the kick with a squeaky yelp, which was followed by a pained grunt from Arthur when he was punished for his impudence.

Adopting a superior, jeering grin, Cadwy laughed, patted Arthur's cheek sardonically, and announced, "Righ' funny, you are! I'd lerv ta play 'round with ya all day, but we've gotta show to ca'ch, don' we?"

With some chuckling and with a snap of Cadwy's fingers, the captives were simultaneously yanked forward into a walk and rearranged into a single-file line, and each of the Camelotians exchanged a wide-eyed glance (before their heads were wrenched forward again by their captors, of course) that conveyed the same message: _Merlin_.

They walked in silence for some time before the thug broke into hysterical sniggers, and he hooted, "Whoo-ee. This's excitin'! The great _Merlin Emrys_—" Arthur was not the only one that, despite his own orders, began to be rough with his captor. Percival nearly popped his own oppressor's arm out of his socket, and they all contributed death glares that would have had Kilgharrah cowering, not that the daft thug noticed…

"—puttin' on a show fer us! It'll be a once-in-a-lifetime expurience, gen'lemen. Tha' sorcerer'll only sing and dance fer us this once—" the group unexpectedly turned a sharp corner, and Percival grunted when the man holding him led him carelessly into the stone wall and had his toes trod on when the group came to an abrupt halt in a front of a small doorway.

Voice becoming less playful, Cadwy continued in a menacing hiss, "—and know tha' if any of ya make so much as a single noise, I've been tol' to slit yer throats, and trus' me when I say i'd be my pleasure ta do so. We be enterin' now, and remember—wai' fer yer turn."

A feeling of horrible foreboding sprouted in Percival's chest as he was pushed through that door, and he could feel the others' tenseness and worry, which only multiplied his own.

They were led into a narrow hallway with thick pillars dividing their corridor from a large, poorly lit room, and when Percival was forced to his knees by the man holding him, he noticed that, without being seen by the occupants of aforementioned room, he could see directly through the space in between the pillars…

He hardly had time to take in the horrors of the room—those torture instruments! the blood stains!—before he was distracted by Merlin himself, whose back was to them and who was making an incredible amount of noise as he frantically searched around him.

Relief bloomed in his chest at the sight of the warlock, but it was Arthur's hard gaze and Gwaine's sudden, strangled gasp that alerted him that he had missed something—or someone. Or even two someones.

Things moved so fast.

First, there was Lot, bleeding and hanging from the ceiling like a freshly butchered pig…

Then Lancelot was suddenly nudging him like mad, and he saw, from the shadows far across the room, _Kay, _glowing with arrogance and victory,emerge with a wicked, devilish smile on his face…

The shock was enough to stop his heart, and the fury was enough to make it beat again.

When he spoke, Percival did not hear the comrade in arms—the friend—he had come to know, but someone entirely new, entirely different. It was the voice of a traitor, a betrayer, _an enemy_…

"Looking for this, _Emrys_?" Kay said coolly, flipping a key up into the air and deftly snagging it midair.

Merlin stiffened, his head bowed and his arm snaking across his ribs in a sort of self-embrace—a worrying sign that all was _not _well with the warlock—and after a moment of frigid silence, he lifted his dark head and turned.

Percival felt a jerk of unease at how fierce the warlock looked. His eyes, usually so soft with kindness and humor, blazed brighter and hotter than the sun but gave off none of its warmth or light. Dark and cold, merciless and unforgiving, they were eyes of one who had experienced the uttermost betrayal and of one who would offer no forgiveness.

The young King's eyes were closed tight, one tear making its journey down his grimy cheek and soaking into the fabric of his gag…

And Merlin's voice sliced through the air like an arrow, cracking and splintering through the thick ice of the moment….

"Why, Kay?"

At the sound of his Court Sorcerer's voice, Arthur's sky-blue eyes flew open…

They mirrored Merlin's.

* * *

><p>(1) Quote from Shakespeare's Hamlet, which I don't own.<p>

*evil grin* To those who never trusted Kay and suspected all along, well done. To those who liked Kay and didn't want him to be evil, I hope I haven't made you too upset *cowers away*, and I really hope you stick around because this is NOT the end.

Part II will include major Merlin- and Arthur-whump. _Maybe _some Knights-whump. Maybe. I plan to still have a part in Gwen's POV sometime soon and now there may be a part in Kay's POV as well. :)

Oz out.


	15. Part II: A Vicious Circle

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: This is a bit of a mess, but I am pretty dang proud of it. For as confusing as it was in my head, I think I did a good job of making it make sense. ;P And I think my dark humor and BAMF!Merlin is pretty good, if I do say so myself. My whump, on the other hand, really is pathetic, and I leave a lot to the imagination. Sorry if I disappoint you guys there. That's one thing I am definitely NOT proud of in this chapter.

Thank you all for your wonderful support, but there's three people I'd like to personally thank and give quick shout-outs to:

Lozzabluebell-Your dedication to updating your own fics is nothing short of amazing, and I don't think I'd ever update if you didn't pm me to ask when I'm updating as often as you do. ;) You've been improving leaps and bounds in your own fics as well, and I'm very proud of you.

ForIHaveOvercomeTheWorld- Thank you for giving me some tips with whump. Your whump-writing, as I'm sure I've mentioned before to you, is beyond brilliant and a real inspiration to all whumpers. :) I wish I could write whump even half as good as you do. :) Everyone, if you want to read some real whump-this is the author to read!

OceanMintLeaves- Your amazing, most inspirational finale to "Two Sides of the Same Coin" is what really pushed me to finish this chapter, and for that, I dedicate this chappie to you as a somewhat belated birthday present. ;)

More news at the bottom. Enjoy:

* * *

><p>"'<em>But some men are friends with the whole world in their hearts, and there are others that hate themselves and spread their hatred around like butter on hot bread.'" <em>–Sam Hamilton (East of Eden: John Steinbeck)

* * *

><p><strong>Part II: A Vicious Circle<strong>

_"Stormy eyes, face, and heart mercilessly hardening to stone, Merlin turned to face the traitor and said with a tone colder and more dangerous than any mid-winter blizzard, "Why, Kay?"_

"Oh, come now! There's no reason for that," Kay smirked arrogantly with a faked pout. As he swaggered into the torture chamber, a renegade Druid that Merlin only vaguely recognized, one of the men that had come to Camelot with Kay, and his two tormentors flitted into the room like shadows behind him.

"There is every reason," Merlin disagreed in a hiss.

The traitor cocked his head, and his teal eyes twinkled teasingly. "Not really. Well, I mean, you have every right to be bitter at me _now_, but what I meant was that I think you know _exactly _the answer to your question."

"I'm terribly sorry, Kay," Merlin retorted cuttingly, "to have disappointed you, but my intuition into the mind of a traitor is a little limited."

"We both know that's a lie," Kay hummed with his cocky grin. "I could see it in your face the moment I first walked into Camelot's Hall. It was rather incredible, really—after I went through so much trouble to learn to create an impenetrable mask… so many years perfecting it—that the servant turned Court Sorcerer, the very same idiot peasant that humiliated us all those years ago, would be the one to see through it." He laughed. "But I believe you'd know something about masks, too, wouldn't you?"

Merlin's eyes narrowed, and he ignored the taunt as Kay said, "I'm curious. Tell me, Merlin, what gave me away?"

"The strutting pheasant still pines for the peacock's noble stride," he answered cryptically. (1) "You want power; you want Lot's throne."

Mockingly, the traitor began to clap, an action that his companions all too willingly picked up. "Ah, yes. You're right, of course, but I'm rather surprised that you've missed the bigger picture. Perhaps you're slipping, Merlin."

"Nope. On the contrary: where it concerns _you_, I think I've gotten it."

Kay's carefree smile faltered, and he asked as though humoring the warlock, "What makes you so sure?"

"Men like you only want power, and whatever else is the work of someone smarter than them… Not that that'd be too much of a challenge," he added bitingly, "Not when we all know that bastardly traitors are more ruled by their lust for women, revenge, and riches than by their brains."

Kay's companions stirred and rumbled with rage, but Kay, on the other hand, did not seem put off in the slightest. Instead, he looked even more self-righteous than before. "Are you done?"

"Just getting started, actually."

The ex-knight chuckled gleefully and said brightly, "Feisty as always, aren't you?" When Merlin didn't respond, he exclaimed, "Good! If you weren't, I'd be quite worried, and you should know that I'm terribly glad you're alright, my friend! Especially after what she—"

"_She?" _Merlin asked sharply.

An all-knowing, superior smirk graced his angelic face. "Here," he said lazily, tossing a key to Merlin.

It skittered across the floor to him, and after sending a glare at Kay, who smiled serenely back at him, the warlock, with a growing scowl, prioritized and picked up the small key and immediately and cautiously released Lot from the manacles. For someone so wiry, thin, and weak from his ordeal—he was practically running on the rush of adrenaline that had accompanied him into the circular room—he was surprisingly strong, and he supported the stocky king's dead weight across his shoulders and lowered him to the floor without harm.

"Alvarr did well, didn't he?" Kay said with a broad smile, twirling a dagger in his hand. The sorcerer in question smiled wickedly. "I would have loved to do it myself, but he's the artist, and he has the better toys."

Merlin's shoulders trembled as he struggled to control his temper and a fresh wave of agonizing nausea from the potion, and remembering, he brushed away the bad memories associated with the name Alvarr.

"…has you to thank for it, after all," Kay was saying.

"_What_?" Merlin said in a deadly whisper, finally tearing his kaleidoscopic eyes from Lot's mutilated chest.

Kay's smirk was victorious, and his eyes glinted hungrily. "Lot was supposed to die tonight, Merlin. But you, of course, couldn't keep your nose clean, and you had to go and upset my plans and kill my assassin and spill that extremely expensive poison all over the place. I had rather expected it, though, after my study of you, so I wasn't entirely disappointed by you saving him. If anything, I was…satisfied. I guess I knew it would fail and unconsciously set it up as a bit of a…_test_ for you."

"A test?" Merlin repeated sarcastically. "And do you regularly sacrifice your men for your so-called _tests_?" He jerked his head to the black-robed men behind Kay and cursed himself for being a spineless coward: he couldn't look at them without losing his collectiveness and his reason to the overwhelming, mind-numbing fear, so…he didn't.

This weakness did not go unnoticed by Kay, and his gaze followed the gesture. "Seems you did not escape unscathed," he murmured.

"Nor will you," Merlin warned ominously. "You've sealed yourself into an inescapable trap of your own making."

There was a thump as the dagger Kay had been holding sunk into the wood of a nearby bench, and Merlin couldn't help but feel smug that he finally got under his skin. "Do you think I'm _afraid, _Merlin?" he snarled. "Do you think that I'm afraid of the gods' judgment for what I've done here? For what I still plan to do?"

"You should be!" Merlin yelled. "You forget that you are just as mortal as any man and just as susceptible to Fate. Don't you care that you've thrown away lives? That you've thrown away friendship and trust? That you've created more enemies than well-wishers?"

Kay bared his teeth in a feral snarl. "I have no regret. I'm justified in my actions."

"Torturing your _cousin _is justified? Stealing away these men's free will is justified? Discarding them as though they're cheap handkerchiefs is _justified_?"

Kay spluttered and wrinkled his brow in a melodramatic attempt to appear offended. "Do you seriously think so low of me—?"

Merlin barked a humorless laugh. "You have _no _right to ask me that. Not after what you've done to _me_."

Kay sighed, and his superior cockiness and anger subsided and was replaced with weariness. "I suppose I don't. I didn't want to hurt you, honestly, Merlin. It wasn't—I was promised that it wouldn't hurt, even though we couldn't be sure since your magic is so different… and after experimenting…"

Realization dawned on Merlin, and he hissed, "_Adlig __ðu __f__édelswín_!" (2)

With a smirk creeping back onto his lips, Kay rolled his eyes. "Could you at least do me the courtesy of insulting me in a language I can fully understand?"

He ignored Kay, and his eyes flashed with hatred. He had thought Kay had sent those men to test him personally, to see what he was up against, to gauge and measure the warlock and perhaps even Camelot's defense system. Now he saw that that was only part of the reason and wondered how he had been stupid enough to not see it the second that foul Dark magic entered his system and stole his powers.

Kay had experimented on those men for the sole purpose of perfecting that magic-stealing potion to use against him.

Merlin, now blinded by uncontrollable anger and, embarrassingly enough, tears, growled and lunged for Kay only to be grabbed painfully from behind by Alvarr, who had been preparing for an unwise move from the warlock for some time. A new stab of pain in his head was the only thing that kept him from continuing to fight against the renegade's grip.

Not meeting Merlin's eyes and disregarding his sudden fit of temper, the traitor snorted suddenly, wrenched his dagger from where he had stabbed it into the wood, and snatched up a vial of the vile dark liquid. Merlin caught both of the two black-clothed men eyeing it longingly…

"Do you know what this is, Merlin?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "It comes from a rare magical plant that only grows in the summits of the White Mountains. They call it the _unlybba _plant in the old texts; we call it Lybb." (3)

Merlin's face became as pale as a sheet, and he could not prevent his eyes from widening or his jaw and fists from tightening. "It _exists_?" he breathed.

It was spoken of in the book on the complete history of magic and the collection of Prophecies—in a section that the warlock had mostly avoided as it contained the most dangerous information in the entire world: that of the Dark times. But even in that book, it was spoken of as little more than myth, and with the horrible, rather sketchy details given, Merlin himself had been skeptical of its existence and had dismissed it with no more than a shudder… _Unlybba_. Poisonous drug. Poison of the body, poison of the mind, poison of the spirit and soul…

Yes, yes it did exist. To it, he was victim.

Without bothering to acknowledge the warlock's rhetorical question or even tease him for it, Kay added, "Myth calls it one of the most poisonous plants in the world, and that each part of the plant spells a different form of death. But, of course, it's not myth, and it's not limited to poison.

"Under the influence of _certain _magic, it _is _indeed poison, and under others and in certain—" his eyes slid wilily to his listless men, and he replaced the phial "—doses, we discovered quite by accident that it is a highly addictive drug that, more or less, one can become both physically and mentally dependant upon. They became the most perfect, controllable servants under its influence, did they not, Alvarr?"

"Indeed they did, Lord Kay."

A small twinge of pity struck Merlin, and he bit the inside of his lip. Gaius and he had once tried to help a man with an addiction, and he still had nightmares about the man's screams as he writhed in his bed during periods of withdrawal…They could never learn what it was that had him so bad—and in the end, their efforts were in vain. They couldn't save him from himself.

The manic pleasure, the restlessness, the risk-taking, the complete lack of fear of consequences, the damned giggling, the red-rimmed, dead eyes...Signs everywhere. Even Lord Ulfric... (4)

"Of course, some of them lost all former common sense and personality, and there were others that retained some of their intelligence and character. But that all depended on the amount given to them, we learned, as well as the strength of mind."

"You're sick," Merlin spat.

Kay raised his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Don't give me that. I was not the one to first give it to them, and _they_ were the weak-minded fools who crawled back and begged _more_," he said saucily.

"Couldn't find followers any other way, I suppose," Merlin said frostily. "They must've all thought you were more trouble than you're worth, and the only way to get them on your side was to drug them and steal their freedom from them."

Kay's pale teal eyes flared with very genuine rage, and he, taking a noticeable breath to calm himself, goaded, "Not exactly, my friend. We needed them to test another use of Lybb…for _you_. You see, the Sorcerer Kings of legend used its power to subdue their enemies' magic—no, _more _than that… it's Darkest, most obscure ability is its tendency to _destroy_ magic. Unfortunately, the ancients were not kind enough to leave us intelligible, step-by-step formulae, so we had to work it out ourselves.

"It was _painfully_ touchy, I'll have you know. I hope you appreciate our work."

"You're kidding," Merlin said with an expressionless face and tone.

Intentionally misinterpreting the warlock's comment, Kay nodded, complaining, "Yes. Far too touchy. It responds differently to every sorcerer's magic, and with yours…with your amount of power—it was incredibly difficult to work out with experimenting. And even then, when we understood the Lybb's properties, we couldn't be sure.

"You see, too much of the potion would cause a sorcerer to explode. Too little and the sorcerer's made deathly ill. At the right amount—the exact amount…bye, bye magic. Any amount, you see, of this potion in the body on a _non-magical _being, on the other hand…" He began to laugh as Merlin began to fight against Alvarr. "Well, with no magic in their bodies to consume, it eats a man away from inside-out."

"Cifesboren áglæca!" (5) Merlin roared. Without thinking and completely losing control over his carefully guarded emotions after hearing Kay's blatant disrespect for the poor men he had manipulated and destroyed, he tried to summon his powers, and for the first time since he discovered his missing magic in the cell, despite the hard crashing of the now familiar agony and queasiness, he didn't back down, he didn't cower away, and he tried again…and again…

A whizzing past his ear and a thud pulled Merlin out of his red-hazed frenzy enough to realize how dizzy and sore he was and how very silly the room looked when it was blurring and fading from his vision. He nearly collapsed, and Alvarr, sniffing contemptuously, had to steady him.

"Do behave yourself, Merlin," Kay said in a bored tone, eyeing his thrown dagger meaningfully. His voice echoed strangely in Merlin's ears. "I'm not exactly done with you yet. And after tonight—" he chuckled "—one way or another, we will never be done with you."

Hating the fact that he felt so weak before the sick pig, Merlin couldn't contain a small groan and retched, but since his stomach was empty, little good it did him.

"Though… looking at you now—" Crinkling his nose in disgust, he shrugged, and he pulled out a vial of pearly liquid from a pocket. "I can fix that."

The antidote. Without it being said, Merlin knew. Some part of him that was still linked to the remnants of his own magic felt it and craved it, and Merlin nearly jumped in shock when he felt the stone in his pocket growing warmer.

"Funnily enough, the ancients were kind enough to leave a recipe for the antidote," Kay mused, shaking the little bottle and giving it a small glare. Returning his gaze to Merlin, he said, "It takes three days for Lybb to complete its task. Three days left for you to live. Would you like to have your magic back, Merlin?"

"What is it you want from me, Kay?" Merlin asked hoarsely, eyes not leaving the vial and ignoring the now-uncomfortably-warm item in his pocket. Though weak, he still managed to add a little bite to his words, and he would have felt quite proud of himself if he wasn't trying so hard to swallow away the horrible sickness he felt.

"Isn't it obvious? We want _you_, Merlin Emrys. We want your…cooperation. And your abilities. In return, we can offer you more power than you ever dreamed of."

Merlin started snickering, and after about two seconds of trying to contain his laughter, he gave up. The laughter seemed to do him wonders (Gaius _had_ always said that laughter and rest were the two best medicines), and his head cleared.

This bargain had been offered enough times to him—Sigan and Nimueh being two of the villains stupid enough to do so—that it was becoming rather offensive…and damn hysterical.

"You might have my life in your hands and my magic under lock and key," he chanted, "but you will never have me."

He was exhausted and giddy enough to find his rhyming incredibly funny, so, of course, it only made him laugh harder.

"You really are mad if you think this is funny, Merlin."

Still chortling, Merlin responded, "Then I must be _positively_ mad."

Kay studied Merlin carefully for a moment, and he said blandly, "I see you've made your decision."

The hilarity died from Merlin's eyes. "Kay, you're flattering yourself if you _ever _thought there was any doubt of my decision. Even for my magic, for my _life…Never_ will I betray Arthur. Never for you and Morgana—yes, I _know _it's her," he added, rolling his eyes at Kay's quirked eyebrow. "Who else would be remotely powerful enough to do this Dark magic? Who else would _dare _use it? Who else would go through such extreme measures to pull me to her side? Who _else _would forge a plan that would effectively get me and Arthur out of the way if she failed?"

He chuckled darkly, and his eyes flashed murderously. "She knows me, and I know her. Neither of you will succeed, Kay. That is a promise. I don't break promises."

"And who are you to stop us?" Kay laughed arrogantly. "You have no magic, your _precious_ Arthur—" the teal eyes burned with resentment at the name of Camelot's King "—is trapped, and his dear, _low-born_ Queen is left home alone in a…vulnerable Camelot."

Merlin's heart dropped. No….

"Do you seriously think that this is all about getting you to join her, mighty Emrys?" He barked a dark, condescending laugh. "You _are _slipping, my observant little sorcerer. You can imagine Morgana ever so much _wishing_ to be here to see you on your knees before her, but she has better things to do.

"As we speak, she marches on Camelot, and your power will be hers by the time the siege begins."

~…~

Gwen pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to block out the onslaught of harsh noise, and after taking a deep breath, she said calmly, her soft tones rising above even the booming yells of Lord Rupert, "I didn't want the people to hear and become afraid, my Lords. Gossip and rumor is enemy enough."

"They are already afraid, my Lady," Lukas argued in exasperation. "But this isn't about them! This is about youtelling _us _your plans."

"If I told you, the likelihood of them discovering that those fires were possibly caused by magic would have been far greater. I _know _they have their suspicions, but I didn't want them worrying even _further_ over something that might not even be true. It is not fair to them, especially now that they're suffering so greatly."

The voices blurred together again in protest, and she sighed, catching Leon and Elyan's annoyed eyes and wishing, not for the first time that day, that Gaius and Geoffrey, her two godsends, hadn't had other duties today and had joined in helping her tame this beast.

Over the past few days, a series of small forest fires had erupted and had begun to spread to some of the nearby villages' crops. The first time, it was merely a horrible misfortune, and a compassionate Gwen had set about providing the villages affected with provisions and help. The second and third times, however, when the crop fields that had been affected were the major providers of grain and fresh vegetables in the citadel, Gwen had begun to see that this was no accidental or natural catastrophe, and she, after hearing a few reports and discerning signs of magic, had contacted the Druid ambassadors of Iseldir's camp and asked them to investigate for her.

Now, instead of discussing what should be done if the fires were indeed caused by magic and how they would go about catching the perpetrator, they were scolding her for acting without consent from the entire council, which was giving the new Queen a migraine and was testing even her seemingly endless patience.

Ever since Arthur left, they had been nearly impossible to work with and overtly anxious about the few, rather insignificant things that the council had been called together for. The arson was becoming something far more serious than the latest tax report and was downright _dangerous_, and here they were, treating her as though she was a child who had forgotten to tell her mummy she was going to go outside to play when _they _were the ones behaving like children_._

And she was getting rather sick of it.

"Enough!" Gwen snapped. "You should be ashamed of yourselves. Bickering over something so inconsequential. That is your King and Court Sorcerer's job."

Beside her, Leon snorted, and Elyan cracked a wide grin. They weren't the only two to, and Gwen felt a pang at how much she missed seeing, and even _hearing, _them there in Camelot.

"Now, tell me," she said more gently. "Had the pair of them been here, would you be questioning a decision that they would have made even quicker than I did? Would you have even raised an eyebrow if the pair of them decided to ride out for themselves to see what the trouble was?"

When they didn't answer, she smiled. "No, no you wouldn't have. Now, may we please—?"

Gwen jumped and squeaked in surprise when the chamber doors were thrown open. Leon and Elyan were immediately on their feet with swords drawn, and they did not relax until they saw that it was the Druid Kynon, Aislin's husband, who was sporting an oozing burn on his forearm, that had blown open the doors.

It wasn't so much his wound that frightened her as the look on his face, which was paler than any bed-sheet she had ever laundered. His eyes were wide with fear, anxiety, and worry, and they bore no good news.

"My Lady," he mumbled.

A black raven of ill-omen cawed, and she felt a sudden shudder run down her spine.

"Kynon!" she exclaimed, worry for her husband, best friend, and people swirling in her gut. "Reed," she called to one of the baffled and surprised guards, "fetch Gaius immediately! Tell him he needs to come treat a burn."

Not even waiting to see Reed bow to her and scamper off, she was out of her chair and standing before the Druid. "Are you alright?" she asked shakily.

He shook his head. "No. I went out to survey the fields, as you had asked, with another of my kin, and—Gwen, it's not the fires we have to worry about," he said hurriedly.

"What?" she asked in bemusement. "What d'you mean?"

Kynon's eyes roved the nobles now standing at the large table, and he said clearly and solemnly, "There's an army heading towards Camelot. We could sense the Witch. She—she's coming. Three days at most."

The atmosphere alone in the room could crack an egg, and after feeling the stares of the councilors and the two Knights boring into her back, Gwen, inhaling sharply, swore under her breath and spun around, her curls whipping her face violently.

_Of _all _the times…_

They had to prepare, and they would have to fight—with or without their King and their warlock.

She shook her head, banishing the pessimistic thoughts and doubts. Now was not the time. She might not have their best fighter, but she had knights plenty; she might not have Emrys, but there was a Druid population only too willing to fight for Camelot.

She might have only been Queen for a few days, but she would _never _let Morgana take her city.

None of them would.

~…~

Without pause, without hesitation, Merlin locked his stormy eyes with the traitor's, and placing all of his anger and his eternal obstinacy and loyalty into one word, he repeated in a dangerous voice, "_Never_."

"Never's an awfully long time, Merlin," Kay simpered. "It has a ring of promise to it. I'm not sure that even _you _can keep this promise. Not when Morgana wants you by her side."

"Oh, I'm shaking in my boots," Merlin deadpanned. "A temperamental child _wants _me as a play-thing. Whatever shall I do?"

Before Kay could so much as narrow his eyes, Alvarr yanked him back so violently by the hood of his thick cloak that the brooch snapped open, and it slipped from his shoulders as he tumbled backwards. While the warlock's long fingers instinctively rose to his abused throat and as a feeling of vulnerability washed over him, the fuming renegade stood over him hissed a spell, and a lightning bolt of electrifying pain coursed through his body.

He cried out as the magic traveled through him, and there was no time to prevent Alvarr from straddling his chest, flipping out a knife with a blade the length of a human's thumb—judging by the _glowing_ orange-yellow color, it very obviously had magical properties—and sticking it into his mouth.

It burned. Not as though he had idiotically gulped down his tea without waiting for it to cool but as though he had licked the heated metal of the tea-kettle itself.

As he, eyes scrunched and watering in response to the pain, wriggled uncomfortably, Alvarr gripped his chin to keep him from moving, pressed the edge of the burning knife against his sensitive tongue, and hissed, "I think this is long overdue, _Emrys!_"

"Alvarr!" Kay commanded in a tone that reminded Merlin of the dog-trainer's every time he walked past Arthur's kennels during feeding time. "Off!"

Alvarr groaned obnoxiously and pulled the knife from the warlock's mouth.

After realizing that nothing more than stinging remained and that there were no horrible welts or other lasting damage in his mouth, Merlin couldn't help but feel morbidly relieved: it was now obvious that the dagger's magic targeted the mind over the body and that the burning sensation he felt was only a form of psychological torture.

Yeah, that really was something to be relieved about.

He knew being _cut _by it would be hell—his gaze flickered briefly to Lot, who was still unconscious on the floor next to him—and should the knife be used on him again, knowing that all the pain was in his mind was just as much a comfort as it was a terrifying prospect.

"I'm tiring of his cheek, Kay," the renegade complained slimily. "I'm sure we'd be doing Morgana a favor by cutting his insolent tongue."

"That threat is getting really old," Merlin muttered to himself.

Alvarr growled at the comment and brought the knife down again—this time against his jugular. Merlin bit his lip as his flesh seemed to melt and blister under the blade and winced when the edge nicked his skin, sending a ripple of fire through his veins. "Would you like me to get a little more creative then?"

"No!" Kay shouted, gripping the renegade's shoulder and wrenching him off of Merlin. "As much as I say I have to agree about his tongue…" The teal eyes flashed to Merlin menacingly, all previous hints of friendliness gone. "Morgana was quite adamant about not hurting him _too _much. We do need him, and she seemed to look forward tohim to spitting fire at her. It'll be her last chance to speak to him as he is before she conducts the ceremony."

Caught off guard by the sudden horrible and overwhelming feeling of ill-omen swirling in his gut and the stink Death lingering ominously above him and confused by the creepy grin now consuming Alvarr's face, Merlin's mask slipped, and he croaked, "Ceremony?"

Those cynical teal eyes bore into him, and the owner of them laughed cruelly. "You're loyalty to _Arthur _is—" He shook his head. "I had been skeptical of her stories until I got to see it for myself, but even after seeing the… unnaturalness—" Merlin's lips twitched into a feral snarl "—of it, I still thought I would give you the chance to accept my offer by choice." He sighed. "She had warned me. I did want to try to be friends after this business was over—it would have made things more pleasant for you. I suppose Morgana was right to scoff at my mercy and my attempt to bargain with you.

"She was damn convinced you would never submit to her of your own free will," Kay added with a hint of mockery in his tone, "and she grudgingly had to acknowledge that you were too powerful to succumb to any of the petty magic-containing spells…that is, until she discovered the secrets of the _Ece Wælclarnþn_ (6)."

The warlock's heart stopped, and blue eyes widened in panic as the little he control he had over the situation slipped from his grasp. The freezing claws of fear wrapped around his insides and squeezed, leaving Merlin panting in terror.

"You're—you're bluffing," Merlin babbled, surprised at how strong his voice sounded. "Even if she _did _discover the spells, which I find highly unlikely, seeing that Druids have spent _centuries _preserving the memory of the Dark Times and guarding and destroying the dangerous, tangible evidence left behind, she'd never _dare_."

"She found the _unlybba _plant and discovered the correct amount to contain even _Emrys_, the warlock born with magic, the warlock incorruptible, didn't she?" Kay reminded him innocently. "And that is the key. That is the core, the very infrastructure, of the secret. What are a few spells and enchantments in comparison?"

"No," Merlin choked, shaking his head as his brief confidence fizzled into nothing. It was a vain attempt to convince himself. This was Morgana. The pain to his joy, the thorn to his blossom, the evil to his good, the dark to his light. His ruthless enemy who would do anything to destroy him, to destroy Arthur. She found it. She did. This was no bluff. It was real. It was happening.

There was nothing he could do about it. He was trapped. Cornered. More so than he could have ever imagined.

Without his magic, how could he ever hope to prevent her from Binding him? Hazy images flashed before his mind. Images of ruined castles, smoldering land, blood-red skies, the faces of his friends when they realized that he was no longer theirs and that there was no saving him without killing him, when they saw that he was lost to them forever in an Eternal Bond with Morgana, and hundreds—nay, thousands of lives stolen…pain, destruction, tears streaking the grime and blood. All his doing. The Emrys' doing.

"She—she wouldn't… even she's not that desperate to sacrifice her own soul to Bind me!" Merlin yelled. "She'd be _mad _to attempt magic so Dark. Even for me."

"Not mad," Kay disagreed. "With you by her side, with your magic hers to command…no, she's not mad. Camelot will be hers, and you, _Merlin Emrys_, will be hers. Arthur…well, his fate is yet to be decided."

Merlin stiffened suspiciously. "What?"

"What happens to your King is up to you," Kay reiterated, a nasty smile stalking about the edges of his mouth. "It is your choice. You can agree to the terms—get your magic back, be Bound to Morgana—you will have your life, and as long as you behave and do not fight the enchantments, tell us what we want to know, do what it is we want done, Arthur will have his."

Merlin's eyes narrowed and blazed furiously, but, showing nothing but slight mocking amusement at the heated gaze of the warlock, the traitor continued casually, "However, if you continue as you behaving as atrociously as you have been—if you continue to fight us, refuse us, we may have to…persuade you a little further, and if it does come to that, Merlin, I can't promise that your Once and Future King will survive."

The threat there was obvious. "Kill him and you have no leverage over me," the warlock said in a deadly quiet voice.

"What does it matter?" Kay shrugged. "Arthur is nothing. If he does die, we won't need the leverage: Morgana still takes Camelot, I still take Escetia, Lot will still rot in a dungeon, and you'll either be Bound to her all the same, or, if your… value diminishes and you become more a pain than you already are, you'll be out of our way as you're left to die when we re-administer the drug that continues to consume your magic—shame really. We do rather want you alive."

Merlin bared his gritted teeth and scrunched his eyes together, choking back a roar of desperate rage and trying to calm his racing heart. Once he was composed enough to speak, he opened his eyes to meet Kay's. "I won't let you touch him."

Kay smiled sardonically. "Then obey."

"Obey?" Merlin snorted darkly. "You know I don't 'obey' well, Kay."

"Then Arthur Pendragon is as good as dead." He twirled his dagger in a lazy circle, and leaning down to Merlin with his pale teal eyes sparkling with cruel mockery, he whispered with a chuckle, "Vicious circle, isn't it?"

He was right. It was a vicious, vicious circle. There had been many times when Merlin had been faced with nearly impossible decisions, but this—this was beyond impossible.

What was there for him to do? What _could _he do?

How could he _not _fight back? How could he just sit back and _watch _as Morgana took his magic for her own? Every fiber of his being revolted and protested against what would be the uttermost betrayal to not only Arthur and Albion and all it's occupants—the ones he swore to protect—but to _himself_. Even thinking about handing himself over so willingly into her claws, and knowing that, should he choose this path, he'd be freely giving her his magic to satisfy her evil cravings and her vindictive pleasures…it made him sick to his stomach, and hatred churned deep in his soul.

But, if he chose to fight, there was no doubt that they'd kill his King, his friend, his brother in all but blood. Arthur would die and with him, hope.

Eventually. They'd kill him _eventually_, he realized, knowing that Morgana knew enough about the bond between Emrys and the Once and Future King to know that if Arthur dies, Merlin wouldn't be too far behind, and it was there—there was the light, as small as it was, at the end of the tunnel.

Kay's sharp whistle broke him from his tormented thoughts. The traitor was beckoning with three short waves of his hand, and when men leading Arthur, Lancelot, Gwaine, and Percival—all bare-chested, bound, and gagged—appeared and dragged the King and Knights to Merlin's side before Kay, the warlock found himself weakening and strengthening in the same moment.

"Bind the sorcerer again," Kay commanded softly to one of his drugged men, who carried out the order without Merlin noticing.

Barely a heartbeat had passed before he and Arthur had met eyes. Judging from what he saw there, the young King had heard and witnessed everything. The sapphire orbs were wild, holding a mixture of compassion, fierce pride, uncompromising fortitude, and, simmering beneath the surface and fueling it all, fiery, undeniable rage and fear—fear for Merlin, fear for his kingdom, his people, and his wife—fear for them all.

_No matter what happens, he will_ not_ be touched, _Merlin vowed._ Not any of them. _

The same message was clear in his King's sapphire eyes, but there was a plea and an order behind it all: _forget me, and fight, idiot. It's the only way. _

Merlin's eyes blurred with tears, and the stormy blue color seemed to grow brighter in his resolve.

_I won't be forced to become a monster. He needs me. They all do._

Apparently satisfied by what he saw in his Court Sorcerer's eyes, Arthur blinked and turned to glower from under his fringe of sweaty blonde locks at his once best friend and best knight, and Merlin turned to look at the Knights, whom were wide-eyed with shock and whom tried to convey some comfort to their warlock.

The men simultaneously threw the Camelotians to the floor and retreated to the shadows with the rest of Kay's little group while Kay himself, who had been watching the reunion with a smug look on his face, pranced before Arthur and towered above the King's murderous glare. "Well, isn't this interesting. Arthur Pendragon on his knees. I never thought I'd see the day."

The warlock's blue eyes flared with ire, and the stony mask quickly replaced what he had allowed Arthur to see. "Arthur was your friend, Kay!" Merlin exclaimed. "Camelot was your home! Why betray them after everything?"

Kay released a bitter laugh. "My _friend_? The Pendragons were never friends to me! My fate had been set by _Uther_! Since I was already owned by him as little more than a slave, my life was never mine to possess! I never knew my father because of Uther, the same man who sent him to his grave. He prevented me from having the childhood I deserved and never gave me the choice as to whether I _wanted_ to take my father's place as a spy. He wrenched me from my home without so much as a second thought or a bloody blink of his eyes. He wrenched me from my _mother_, who was ill and _needed _me. Did you know she committed suicide just weeks after Ector's death and after I had been sent in his place, Merlin? Did you?" he demanded, his voice gaining volume with every word.

He was shaking with fury now, and even his men, all with the exception of Alvarr, gained wary frowns and had slinked further out of sight into the shadows. Merlin himself, used to rages of any and all kind, was not uneasy at the unhinging of the man before him and instead gaped in aghast disbelief at the traitor's motives for doing this to them all.

A part of the warlock could relate: he too had never known his father because of Uther, but that did not make it in anyway excusable in his eyes…not when he understood and accepted _why, _not when he had long since forgiven_._ Kay, on the other hand, was selfish, and he could not look past his hurt to understand, accept, and forgive as Merlin had.

It was despicable. Sir Ector had lived honorably and had died just as honorably. He died a hero's death, fighting for what was right, and had done his country proud.

_There was no excuse._

Driven by little more than revenge, Kay was no better than she was. In fact, the way his ruthless teal eyes gleamed in indescribable loathing and the clipped, assured, and passionately violent way he spoke reminded him _exactly _of Morgana as she was after Morgause had taken her into her fold.

"Then there's _Arthur_, the perfect, the 'I-am-always-right-and-can-do-no-wrong' _angel_ of a prince, the future's glory and hope," Kay continued, spitting with envy and resentment, "The younger of the two of us yet always the one who overshadowed me, who upstaged me, who taught me to _hate _myself (7) for my weaknesses, for my _pathetic _groveling at his feet, for my following at his heels and following his every word and whim so blindlyand mindlessly_._ As was _expected_ of one who killedmy last link, my last remaining family member, my godfather and by all means my surrogate father, the _last _one I felt any loyalty to or held any love for.

"There is nothing for me in Camelot now. Nothing. Morgana's offer was only _too _tempting to take, especially when I knew that the throne of Escetia was meant to be mine." He sent an accusatory glance to Arthur.

The information clambered and somersaulted in Merlin's mind in a chaotic frenzy. It was all wrong. All off. There were so many holes, so many gaps and misconceptions in his logic and his motives.

He didn't understand.

Merlin had learnt enough about Kay and his history to know that what he had revealed in his long-winded rant—his hatred of being controlled, his fear of losing control, his insecurities, his jealousy of Arthur, his ambition—was not enough for a man like him—yes, Merlin knew that the mask Kay had donned was just as much a part of him as his own past mask, the mask he had to make to hide his magic, was of him—to do something as atrocious as this…

_He had once risked his _life_ in a stand against Cenred and Morgause_, Merlin remembered, finding the information more telling than anything Kay had just revealed.

"It's high time _I_ won, Arthur Pendragon," the traitor smirked conceitedly.

"It's high time you learnt that this is no mere game you're playing, Kay!" Merlin retorted, watching him carefully.

Kay grinned without humor. "Life is a game, Merlin Emrys. Some are players, and some set the rules. Some succeed; others fail. Most lose; few ever win."

"Don't you see that she's using you, Kay? Don't you see she's using you as a pawn for hertwistedentertainment and for her own ends?" Merlin growled. "She's manipulating you! She's feeding the darkest of your emotions, the darkest parts of yourself, and forcing them to the surface. I know you're better than this. This isn't you."

Teal eyes hardened to ice, and before Merlin could blink, Kay, dagger still in hand, lunged for him, kneeing him underneath the chin, causing his head to jerk upwards and his teeth and jaw to vibrate in pain, and sending him sprawling to the floor. Ignoring the Knights' and King's mumbling yells and shouts, Kay grabbed a fistful of Merlin's hair and yanked him up again to a kneeling position. The cold metal of the blade slipped beneath his jaw bone, and Merlin, wincing, felt it drawing blood.

Slowly, Kay squatted to his level, not moving the knife or unlocking his eyes from Merlin's. "I know," the ex-knight hissed to him, "who I am. I am my own. I belong to no one but myself." He suddenly pushed Merlin away from him and stood. "Don't _ever _suggest otherwise."

There was only one thing that Merlin could say, and with a smallest trace of pity underneath the taunting malice, he said, "If this is you, as you say, then your father would be ashamed to see you now."

The angelic face darkened to resemble the countenance of a demon in disguise, and Merlin knew, even before he had said it, that there would be no returning now.

The whip seemed to appear of its own accord in the traitor's hand, and Merlin felt the sting of a knife point carelessly slide up the skin on his back as his shirt was cut off by one of Kay's lackeys.

Kay cracked the whip once to feel the torture device out, but not wanting to give any of them the satisfaction of seeing him flinch, Merlin straightened his shoulders in preparation, smiled lopsidedly, and quipped, "Seems were done talking."

The resulting surprise blow to the head seemed to be the last straw for Arthur, and the King, yelling incomprehensibly, sprung at the drugged man who had cut and then hit Merlin, managing to knock him to the floor—Merlin winced at the nasty sounding clunk of his head hitting the stone—an action that sent the other fellows to come running to restrain Arthur and the Knights as a precaution before they could team up.

Kay watched the scene indifferently, but his eyes flashed greedily when he noticed Merlin watching the King struggle and cry out with the fierce protectiveness of a mother hawk.

"Arthur," Merlin said softly. The King stopped struggling immediately and shot his warlock a pained and annoyed glance. The warlock couldn't stand looking at the desperateness in his friend's eyes for long, and it wasn't until he turned his own back to Kay that he realized his mistake.

"NO!" Merlin roared, lunging for Kay's legs.

His attempt had been no more successful than Arthur's. The traitor merely tripped up and kicked the warlock in the ribcage for his trouble. One sharp crack echoed in the room, and while Kay laughed, Merlin gasped in pain.

"You really are a pain in the ass, you know, Merlin," Kay chided offhandedly as he shook the one hand Merlin still had wrapped around his boot off. "Now we're going to have to heal your rib so that Morgana doesn't throw a hissy fit for spoiling her goods."

Gritting his teeth, Merlin struggled into an upright position and snarled, his voice ringing with power he no longer possessed, "You will not touch him."

Kay cocked his head. "I think I will. I don't think whipping _you _is fitting enough punishment for your rudeness. I have the feeling you'd just grin at me with that idiotic smile of yours."

"I won't let you hurt him." Merlin's eyes flickered with tainted gold, and he moaned as the poison attacked his body, leaving him fuzzy-headed and unable to do more than clutch his throbbing head with both hands, which had been tied in front of him instead of behind him this time.

Kay's chuckles seemed to come from all around him, and through blurry eyes, he saw Kay taking Arthur from his men and forcing him to the ground.

"Are you ready to face the consequences of having a dangerous sorcerer for a friend, Pendragon?" the ex-knight whispered.

Arthur's sapphire blue eyes stood out from the rest of the blur, and Merlin could see them—stubbornly determined, clear of fear, and…_grateful_. Grateful that it wasn't Merlin. Grateful that it was him.

In a burst of determination, the warlock lurched forward only to crumple to the floor again.

And the traitor only laughed at him while the first lash came down on the Once and Future King's bare back.

Merlin didn't hear Arthur make a sound. He didn't even hear the Knights, who had actually made noise and had begun to wrestle and shout through their gags. All he heard was the crack of the whip as it began another lash.

Exactly seven lashes were complete before Merlin could break through the sickening fog in his mind, and another fog—one that cleared his head, sharpened his senses, and made him more aware of everything around him.

He was Emrys, dammit. He was the most powerful sorcerer that was, is, and ever would be. No _plant _could contain him. No man could hold him. Dark magic was _nothing _to his own magic.

And they were flogging Arthur for no reason other than to teach _him _a lesson.

Lesson learnt.

Heart and blood boiling, Merlin, feeling a heart-breaking sting in his soul with every crack and with every shade of deepening pink that was displayed over his King's muscled back, pulled himself to his knees and focused on what his magic had been, the feeling of it rushing through him, the tingling in his fingertips, in his very blood…

When Arthur released a groan for the first time, Merlin dug for it, groaning himself as the poison wrenched and tore as he tugged and pulled it back to the surface.

It was a brutal game of tug-of-war. The closer the warlock got to pulling free, the more fire that the poison poured into his body. He had been burnt alive upon it entering his system, and now, it was as though he were sitting naked in hell's fires themselves, sentenced to an eternity with the heat and pain as his only company.

The flames didn't just attack his body this time. No, this time, his mind was being attacked just as well. Daggers both frigid and hot pierced the inside of his skull, but then the maces, then the swords, then the hatchets and axes….

One second of lost focus was all it would take. If for one moment the warlock forgot what it was he was fighting for or lost his grip, he wouldn't be able to regain the strength to recover and return to his internal battle.

He'd fail.

There was a bit of a panic when Merlin's groans became screams. He didn't even notice until he recognized Gwaine's voice—he must have loosened the gag somehow—shouting his name and yelling to Kay that "it's killing him!"

He didn't pay too much attention to the men who tried to touch him—something kept them from succeeding—or to the shouting. All he could see was Arthur, and when that first splash of red entered his field of vision…

Well, all hell was loose.

With that final push of pure fury, the tainted gold color of his eyes grew brighter and brighter, and a small, small trickle of his magic seeped from a crack in the barrier.

As small as it was, it embraced him softly, and before the poison could reclaim its prisoner, he raised his hand and smiled wanly.

Hope flooded his chest. He felt warm—as though he had been just sitting near the campfire with friends or wrapped up in blankets in Gaius' chambers or in his childhood home with his mother…

After exactly twenty-three lashes (8), the whip was forcefully tugged from Kay's hand, and seemingly of its on accord, it wrapped itself around the traitor's neck…

The last thing Merlin saw was Arthur's glazed sky-blue eyes and Kay's look of genuine fear and dumbfounded astonishment before the whip dropped to the floor and the last, miniscule portion of his magic, in a last bid to protect him from the pain of the poison's revenge, lulled him into unconsciousness.

* * *

><p>(1) I actually caught myself looking up youtube vids of peacocks and pheasants struttingwalking after I wrote that line. I hope you all are happy. I blame you all for making me go absolutely bonkers. ;P

(2) Translation: you sick fattened pig

(3) Both unlybba and lybb are words for drug/poison.

**(4) ** I know very, very little about addictions/drugs, and I know I'm drawing from more modern times with this idea. I kinda modeled this drug's effects, with a few additions, after warmweed from the "Ranger's Apprentice" series, which I do not own.

(5) Translation: Bastard(ly) monster

(6) Translation: Eternal fatal bond, mentioned in Part I by Percival. :D

(7) See lovely East of Eden quote

(8) I kinda looked up Roran's 50-lashes whipping scene in Brisingr, but it didn't really help me. 23 is a completely random number.

So...how confusing was it, really? It really is all over the place, but for as much info as I was shoving into this chapter, I think that's as neat and coherent as it could ever be. ;) More bromance next chapter!

Right, quick news update: thanks to bluespiritgal and servant123, once this fic is over, I will, in addition to starting the new post-s4 fic I have planned as well as the Danny Phantom fic I want to do, be continuing my 4x13 AU "Only Friend." They offered me some really brilliant ideas that I think I can work with, and I'm kinda excited to get on it. :)

Hope you've enjoyed! Any and all mistakes are my own, and there are probably a lot of them this time 'round.

Oz out.


	16. Storm Clouds

_Disclaimer: _IDOM

AN: Gods, this story's become a monster! :o Wow. Over 100,000 words... I have no life. ;P

This chapter is a bit...insane. It's sectioned off into three parts:

The first is a look into the mind of Kay. If it seems... contradictory, scattered ('psychotic' might pass through your mind once or twice...), that is the point! :D I had fun with that bit.

The second is another scene from Gwen's POV, including some Gwen-Gaius bonding and Kilgharrah.

The third is Arthur and Merlin's POV, which is mostly bromance (I had hoped for more, but I felt like the gravity of the situation they're in kinda limits their time to be bromantic when so many conflicts are crowding in around them and pressing them to get a move on, which is more realistic anyway, I feel) and two shockers, one a lot more exciting than the other. ;)

Not so much BAMF or dark humor here...but there's plenty of angst.

ForIHaveOvercomeTheWorld: I'm so sorry I couldn't get this up on your birthday, but I hope you enjoy this update as a belated bday gift all the same. :)

Also, happy belated Father's Day! You probably won't see this, but thank you for being so awesome, Dad.

The lyrics below are from my dearest Uncle Bob, one of my dad's favorite musicians, which is pretty coincidental. :D Enjoy:

* * *

><p><em>How can you qualify<em>

_Difference between a sin and a lie?_

(Song: "Sinners and their Repentances" from Bob Mould's 1989 solo album Workbook)

* * *

><p><strong>Storm Clouds<strong>

Kay had always been a coward.

He had just taken his time realizing it.

When he was a boy in Camelot, he had not necessarily needed bravery. His father was _the_ Sir Ector, after all, and he was in training to be a knight of the greatest, most influential realm in the land, a realm that had only seen minor border-skirmishes since the times of the Great Purge. Since it had been a relatively peaceful time with no signs of war on the horizon, he had been completely safe in Camelot, and there really had been nothing to fear.

Because of his family name and his growing skill with the sword, he had felt superior to all others and had known that no one would or could touch him, and because of the overwhelming confidence he had felt, because of the powerful friends that stood beside him, and because of his sense of security in his _own _realm—well, this had only increased his level of cockiness.

But, cockiness and bravery were not the same things. Indeed, cockiness was perhaps one of the lowest, most pathetic forms of cowardice.

For all of his life, he had been denying his fears behind a façade of arrogance and self-righteousness, a façade that, over time, had made him believe he was someone he wasn't, that had tricked him into thinking he possessed the courage and honor of his father and of the other legendary heroes of the kingdom…a façade that had made his true fears all the harder to conquer when they became too much for him to bear.

It was this façade of cockiness that he had always had as a defense from stress and fear, but when the shield shattered, when he had been sent away from Camelot and torn from the safe environment he had taken for granted only to be thrown into a new world of chaos, corruption, and evil, he had nothing left to protect himself from his weaknesses.

And he _hated _himself for it. It felt as though he had set himself up for failure the moment he learned how to smirk haughtily, the moment he felt that his father's name and his superior status made it alright to domineer those weaker than him, the moment he hid behind another's courage and played it off as courage of his own…

It had always seemed to him that Arthur's courage had been enough for the two of them.

That was why he had always subconsciously envied the Pendragon and always pushed himself to beat him in all their childhood endeavors. But despite the fact that he surpassed Arthur's skill with dagger-play and was near equal to him in swordplay, horsemanship, and archery, Arthur had something he did not.

The Prince he knew might have had just as much, if not more, pompousness than he himself did, but deep in his heart, Kay had sensed and on occasion had seen the extent of the true courage his young friend had held within him; it was that kind of courage that he had always yearned for.

And it had only become more apparent in the Pendragon as time flowed onward. The stories that followed Kay into Escetia about Arthur, both as Prince and King, portrayed a man that Kay had always imagined himself being, a man he had always dreamed to be, a man that he _wasn't_…

When he had been sent to Escetia, his cowardice became all too apparent—he had nearly resorted to treason and betrayal quite a few times over to save his own skin during his time in Cenred's court—and loathing his spinelessness, his shame, and his less than noble thoughts, he tried to circumvent it all by modeling his own actions after the actions of more honorable men—Arthur, his father, Uther's most just knights—and by thinking as they would think.

Even his part in the Bellum Sanguinis, a story that was repeated in Camelot with the highest admiration and awe, was something he could hardly feel proud of. He had been frightened when he had stood against Cenred and Morgause and somehow had been frightened even when he had fled into hiding—he had been terrified out of his mind, actually, and even though he had known that it had been the right thing to do, he knew that his only real motivation for putting himself at risk had been the assurance that that was what other men of high morality in his place would do. Again, he had been drawing on the courage of others instead of relying upon his own.

It had become a bad habit.

How he hated it. How he hated letting his decisions be ruled by others'. How he hated standing in the shadows of men he wanted to be. How he hated not being strong enough to make a name for himself based on whom and what _he _was.

This was perhaps where jealousy morphed into resentment, when enemies became allies and friends, foes, how hatred began to replace love, and why he became so determined and convinced to become his own master, his own servant, his own man.

And just like coward and hypocrite he was, he chose the easiest path, the path that also offered a very sweet revenge for the father he had never known and the mother he could have saved and a throne and crown on top of that, to go about doing so.

Of course, he never expected this difficult bump in the road. From the way that Morgana had ranted and raved about _him_ and about how necessary it was that he was either killed or shackled for eternity, Kay would have never believed him to be so… _good… _or so easy to befriend, and he never expected to feel the _need_ to become loyal to him.

There was just something about Merlin. Spending time with him these past few days had felt like a breath of fresh air, a beginning, a second chance. He felt like himself—his whole self, the best self he could possibly be—and he was…happy. The bitterness he harbored towards Camelot, its ruling family, and the world seemed to fizzle away.

But, most striking of all, Merlin, who Kay had known was _very _good at reading people, had seen something _more _in him, something that had made the warlock _glad_ to become his friend, something that he himself couldn't see. That wasn't his mask at work, he knew, because Merlin would have been able to see right through him if it was _just _the mask alone that was covering his tracks.

The look of betrayal and broken trust wouldn't have been shining from those unnatural eyes if it had just been the mask's doing.

It was something deeper than that.

It confused him—frightened him, even, and made a twinge of uneasiness stir within him—but he had hardened himself, knowing that there was no straying from the path he had been set on. He couldn't. Not when he was so justified in his actions. Not when he was finally doing something of his own willpower and _finally_ making his destiny for himself.

He was no coward.

Kay had wondered how it was that two people who were offered very similar choices, two people with extraordinary similar pasts and with similar life-circumstances, ended up so different…

_No, _he was his own. He was not Merlin nor was Merlin he. And Kay was going to get what he wanted—what he _deserved_.

But…as he saw those stormy eyes flashing with unquestionable rage, stronger than any anger he had ever seen or experienced, as he became ever more bitter and odious with every taunt that insolent twig of a man—that goddamn wonder of a man—threw at him, why couldn't he help but feel as though he _wasn't _doing just that? Why couldn't he help but feel as though he was _right _to wonder how and _why_?

The ex-knight didn't know exactly when it was that he was pushed over the edge, but he knew that his breaking point had a lot to do with the undercurrent of pity and _disappointment_ in the warlock's cold, dangerous eyes and the harshness of his tone when he suggested that Morgana was manipulating him…

Then the fool of a servant-sorcerer had the _nerve _to bring his father into it…

Kay had warned him, hadn't he? He had said that he'd pay the price if he crossed the line. If he truly was to be enslaved by Morgana, this willpower could hardly endure. And she did tell him that it was acceptable to break him a little…

And he saw the way they looked at each other. The only way to remotely touch Merlin was to hurt Arthur. Badly.

The whip felt nice in his hand. He felt _powerful_—as though he was finally in control of the situation, as though he finally had leaped a step ahead of the stubborn ass, who, frustratingly enough, had seemed to be _outwitting _him and had seemed to be the ringmaster of what was supposed to be _his _moment of glory, his moment to breathe a sigh of relief, his moment to yell to the heavens that he was _finally _exacting revenge and was _finally_ completing his part of the deal—the deed that would satisfy his greed and his desires.

The cracks of the whip sounded sweeter to him than any songbird's tune, and when the Pendragon began to groan through his gag in pain… well, that just made it all the sweeter.

But when _Merlin_, eyes swirling with a horrifyingly dark, rotten gold,began to moan and when Kay saw him fall to the floor…

When he began to _scream_…

Something terrifying stirred in his chest. A monster of fear. More fear than he had experienced over the course of his entire lifetime.

It wasn't fear of Merlin, really, nor was it fear _for _Merlin necessarily. That was certainly part of it, but it wasn't at the same time.

With ears that received sound as they would had they been submerged underwater, he heard Sir Gwaine's pleas and shouts. It _was _killing Merlin. Trying to reach for his nonexistent magic like that. It was harming him just as much as the whip was harming Arthur. If not more.

If either of them died without the master plan having been completed, Morgana would probably kill him herself. That was another part of his fear.

But the true origin of the fear in him…was the serpent-monster. It was—it was…

He couldn't stop bringing the whip down on the Camelotian King's bare back, and he couldn't stop from feeling wild, ruthless glee and pleasure, emotions that weakly combated that serpent of terror in him, as the fair skin of the royal welted and reddened.

And when the first drop of blood spilt…

He then had reason to be _very _afraid of Merlin when the warlock, with a sudden strength and with eyes ferociously blazing with bright, brilliant gold, seemed to float to his feet, raise his long-fingered hand, and _smile_…

The whip was wrenched from his hand, and the bloody cord wrapped around his neck before he could so much as process what was happening.

_He shouldn't—he couldn't—the poison…But how…? Morgana had said…_

It was _impossible_.

It was impossible, and yet… the whip tightened around his neck, cutting off his air and digging into his flesh, and his fingernails scrabbled and clawed at it as a panic-induced haze clouded his mind and as his heart pounded and as his lungs cried for air…

When the gold faded from Merlin's eyes and when he collapsed limply to the floor, the whip slipped from Kay's neck, and he stumbled forward, clutching at his bruised neck and wheezing and coughing and gulping down the air…

He stared at Merlin, the loyal, the utterly unnatural, the _impossible_—that serpent-monster in him now stretching and beginning to rear its ugly head…

It was completely silent. Deafeningly silent. Maddeningly silent. Arthur had only just fallen unconscious, and the Camelotian King's Knights' and his own men's eyes flitted from the fallen Merlin, to the bloody Arthur, to the visibly panicking Kay, and back again with utter horror and incredulity, both of which potent enough to keep even the roguish Gwaine from insulting and cussing and raging on the top of his lungs, as the moment dragged on…

Sweat beaded at his temples, and the monster—he couldn't fight it. He needed to fight it. Needed to…Couldn't. Feeling trapped, Kay's own eyes darted, looking for an escape…

Lot was awake.

"You're lucky," the Escetian King whispered stoically, chillingly, "that he didn't kill you."

Kay closed his eyes, and his vision blurry… and voices all around… the noise—too much noise. The silence was overwhelming. Buzzing. Rushing. Pinpricks on his skin. There was blood on his hands…blood all over the floor… Merlin's screams echoing….the monster…

"Get out," Kay choked. "Out! Everyone! Cadwy!" he snapped, his teal eyes flying open. He avoided looking at Lot's mutilated chest, Arthur's raw back, Merlin's crumpled form—Gods…

Taking a deep breath, he ordered with considerable coherency and forced calmness, "Call for the healer Morgana had sent here with Alvarr. Direct her to their cell—yes, one cell will do—and tell her to tend to them to the best of her capability."

Cadwy merely nodded dumbly, but Alvarr's heavy brow furrowed confusedly and worriedly. The renegade protested, "But—"

"Now!" Kay roared. "Get! All of you!"

The drugged minions jolted into motion, and each of them either took hold of a Knight or cradled an injured man in their arms…

Eyes… their eyes…A mixture of lifeless and lively...The dead burned and burned. The blue, sky and storm, slicing through his very soul. The jade, the pale, and the dark biting, accusing, and reflecting…

Even out of the room, he saw the eyes hovering. An imprint marked forever on his guilty conscience.

Crying out wretchedly and hugging himself, Kay fell to his knees and began to convulse with violent shudders.

The inhuman monster of fear had eaten its way free and was there before his eyes.

Himself.

~…~

It had taken less than a half hour for Iseldir to come to his son's summons and enter the halls of Camelot, and after the Druid had walked into the council chambers, chambers full of people who had still been recovering from the shock at the news and had been stunned with the sudden revelation of the significance of this moment in time—non-magical and magical peoples were coming together for the first time since the Purge to plan to _fight _together, which was something that few had hardly ever _guessed _would become reality in their lifetimes—they immediately grabbed their maps and plans, spread them over the large table, huddled together, and planned.

They had been at it for nearly a full day now. Gwen's head spun with statistics, with numbers, with what should be done if this happened and if that happened, with defenses fortified by magic, stone, and sinew…

"In the bell tower," Gwen decided firmly, jabbing a finger at the parchment displaying the detailed sketches and plans of the citadel. "There's no better place."

With severe crystal eyes, Iseldir nodded, and Leon added approvingly to the curly-haired Druid, "You'd be able to see the battle from there easily, and even if some breach our walls and small fights begin to break from the main battle, there's not much you won't be able to _not _see, and you can still easily command your people."

"That'll be the spot then," Iseldir agreed.

Because Druids were not necessarily fighters—a fact that had been rather difficult for some of the Lords, who were very much spoilt by Merlin and his magic (whether they would have believed it or not) to wrap their minds around—it had been Gwen's idea that the Druids use their magic to shield the city from projectile and magical attacks and that they, in small groups, be positioned in scattered places of high security so that their spell-casting couldn't be interrupted by the fighting and so that their spells could cover the most area possible.

Iseldir's job was to watch for weaknesses in those shields and, through his ability to use mind-speak, to send word as to where those shields needed to be strengthened or as to where their power should be redirected should another Druid group need extra aid. He, too, would have a small group with him that would also help him and add to any shield's fortification should it be required.

Despite their plan and despite the fact that more Druids had been contacted to join Iseldir's clan, the Druid chieftain warned not to depend fully on their shields.

"Shields are tricky things," he cautioned with serious eyes, "and it is impossible to create a magical shield completely impenetrable. Emrys might be able to do such a thing, but until word reaches him, we are on our own."

Gwen bit her lip and fiercely prayed that the messenger she had sent to ride to Castle Livindir would be able to make the usual three day journey in two days. If he regularly found fresh horses, which would be easy given that she gave him her new seal to carry with him, and rode with haste, it wasn't completely impossible. But despite the messenger, she was also hoping—no, desperately depending on Merlin to return with Kilgharrah, who she had _no _idea how to contact without suddenly gaining Dragon-Lord abilities, as well as Arthur and the Knights_ before _the battle began.

Camelot needed them, and she had faith that, even if they might not make it before Morgana came, they, bound to their city in a way she couldn't begin to describe in words, would be there when they were needed most. They had to be.

Gaius, sensing her distress, gently placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed in reassurance. In his eyes, there was much of the same worry, but there was also a spark that suggested his utter confidence that both Merlin and Arthur would return in time.

"We, too," a solemn Iseldir finished, "cannot hold out forever."

"We cannot underestimate the witch, either," Kynon added bitterly. "Her judgment might be poisoned by revenge and might be faulty because of it, but Dark magic clings to her like a second skin these days."

"What should happen if—?" Geoffrey began.

Suddenly, the sky fell, and as the Earth shuddered under its weight, the castle's very foundations shook. A jolting tremor hit the room, causing the men and long table to wobble dangerously and the candlesticks and chairs to slide and then crash to the floor, and an aftershock ran up Gwen's spine as she regained her balance and as a loud _boom _resounded through the entire castle.

"What the hell?" Elyan said.

When a low rumble of thunder and loud yelling erupted from outside, Gwen's delicate brow pinched together in confusion and some irritation at having been interrupted, and after blowing a lose curl from her face, she leaned to peer out the window…

With golden scales that glittered in the early evening light and a lethal tail whipping in agitation, the Dragon was crouched in the courtyard, and thundering growls—growls both menacing and almost…_frantic_—ripped from his throat.

After releasing a high-pitched, hybrid yelp-gasp of mingled relief, surprise, and worry, Gwen cried, "Kilgharrah!"

Not caring in the slightest that she was hardly acting like an appropriate Queen, Gwen grabbed fistfuls of her dress, and with her hair streaming and falling from her carefully styled braids and with cries of shock and shouts of her name and title sounding all around her, she sprinted through the castle and down the stairs into the courtyard. Somewhere between the council chambers and the outdoor staircase, she, cursing, had kicked off her uncomfortable shoes (Gwen _had _begun to pull on her comfortable boots (1) that morning, but she regretfully set them aside when her new maidservant had insisted she wear those god-awful torture devices to match the rich maroon gown (2) that had just been completed and delivered to her. Gwen, of course, couldn't possibly argue with the severe, uptight elder woman, who looked near indignant when she saw the worn boots in her mistress's hands, and avoided the imminent scolding in the process) and ran the rest of the way barefooted.

Guards, soldiers, and both castle-folk and townsfolk were in a mass of confusion, panic, and frightful awe, and Kilgharrah, whose irritation with them was very much obvious, wasn't helping matters much by ignoring the brave ones trying to speak with him and by growling. In fact, he looked very uncomfortable: he twitched restlessly, and his muscles were tensed and coiled as though he were ready to take off at any moment.

For a moment, even she was frightened to go near when she saw that his eyes were not the powerful dark-golden blankets of comfort, wisdom, and friendship she had learned to love. These eyes were beast's eyes—wild, mindlessly enraged, and engulfed with magic. They were the eyes she saw when he had attacked Camelot all these years ago.

This time, however, those golden eyes were not only fierce with the promise of revenge and full of fury but were also laced with _fear_.

She had never seen him like _this_ before. So…helpless, so unhinged….

If _Kilgharrah _was afraid, something was wrong. _Beyond _wrong.

Something catastrophic had happened.

"Back!" Gwen shouted authoritatively, pushing through people to reach her giant, distressed friend. "Everyone, please, back away, and give him space!"

Leon and Elyan, who had followed her without hesitation from the council chambers, began to repeat the orders, and they also ordered the guards present to clear the courtyard and to _keep_ it clear.

All the while, the Great Dragon mumbled rapidly to himself in Dragon Tongue, and his eyes, as distant and misty as a daydreamer's and shimmering with unearthly light, shifted to the skies.

The air crackled with a strange magic, and a heavy, dense shadow hung over them all.

When everyone had been herded away and after Gwen silently cautioned the other council members who had joined her to stay back, the Queen, not wanting to disturb the Dragon's trance or startle him, approached Kilgharrah with caution.

All of a sudden, Kilgharrah's eyes cleared and snapped back to the present, and he lowered his head to Gwen.

Shakily, Gwen placed a hand on his snout. "Kilgharrah," she breathed, fighting unbidden tears. "What has happened? Has Morg—?"

With a blood-curdling snarl, the Dragon jerked away from her gentle touch and snorted flames. "_The_ _witch!" _he spat sarcastically, indignantly. "Bah! Black as night, heart of stone…So long as the stars shine bright, those who frolic with demons die_ alone_."

The curse settled, and everyone present—Gaius, Gwen, Elyan, Leon, Geoffrey, the two Druids, and the Lords—quivered at the power in his words and realized the confident _promise _in the Dragon's prediction.

"She is nothing," Kilgharrah said flippantly. "And she is not my main concern. Nor should she be yours."

"But—" Leon frowned. "But she's marches on Camelot, Kilgharrah! Of course she's our main concern!"

Kilgharrah's responding roar was heard throughout the entire city, and when the Dragon stomped and dug his claws into the flagstone in his fury, a spider-web of cracks rippled from underneath him. His eyes flew shut, and after shaking his massive head, his roars of horrific rage transfigured into soft, keening growls of….

Terror flooded her when she saw those deep, wise eyes blink open and as one tear slipped and fell…

"Guinevere," he said in a broken whisper. "Friends. I come to you…to apologize."

"Apologize?" Gwen repeated dumbly, her head spinning and her heart rising to her throat.

"For the time being, you must expect to face the witch without my assistance."

There was an outbreak of gasps and protesting from behind Gwen, and she appealed, "Why must we? We need your help, Kilgharrah! We…we might not…" she exhaled unsteadily. "Merlin might not be here, but—"

"It is your duty!" Rupert cried out.

Kilgharrah's wild eyes narrowed, and his head snaked around Gwen before she could blink. He glared at the line of council members and snarled in a deep, chillingly protective voice, "Dragons have but one—only one—_true_ duty. And though he might be a fool at the best of times, he is _mine_."

The dark, wise eyes lifted to the heavens again, and his voice changed timbre. "My—the young warlock—"

"_Merlin_," the group gasped collectively.

Gaius, wide-eyed with panic, was at Gwen's shoulder in a heartbeat. "What has happened?" he demanded. "What about Merlin?"

Kilgharrah released a tormented sigh and said in an equally tormented voice edged with exhaustion, "I cannot Sense my Dragon-Lord. I—I _lost _him."

Time froze for an eternity as the suggestion behind Kilgharrah's words sunk in, and Gwen, numb with shock and then pained with grief, covered her slack jaw with one graceful hand. "No…"

If Merlin was dead…that meant that the Knights…Arthur…

"No," Gaius echoed. "No, he can't be…"

"The young warlock isn't dead," Kilgharrah mumbled. "Not yet anyway."

"Wh—what?" Gwen stuttered hopefully and fearfully as she wiped at her teary eyes. "I—I thought...that your bond…"

"The bond between Dragon-Lord and dragon is a bond of the souls," the Dragon had once explained to her. "We are constantly aware of each other's presence and each other's magic; sometimes even our emotions and thoughts are attuned. In the past, some pairs, you could say, became _one _(3). Merlin and I…we never went _that _far, thank goodness—" While the Knights that had been present had burst into laughter at the Dragon's teasing tone of utter relief, Merlin himself had had the strangest expression of mixed agreement, amusement, and exasperation on his face_ "_—But despite our respect for each other's privacy and our reluctance to reduce _all _barriers between each other, our bond—little goes unnoticed. This type of bond—this strong connection—is only broken when dragon or his Lord leaves the world, finds his peace, and joins the collective voice of our ancestors."

The memory faded when the golden Dragon before her lowered his gaze and said quietly, "When one's other dies, it is indescribable. I, unfortunately, have seen the passing of many a Dragon-Lord and have come to recognize and accept. What I felt last night…I'd compare it to someone gutting me alive. And accompanying the pain—dread. Dread I haven't experienced since the eve of the Great Purge.

"Destiny…She _faltered_."

"I was in Northumbria—" Gwen's eyes widened. Northumbria was a _week_-long journey (4). Kilgharrah must have made the flight in mere _hours_ "—researching some rumors about dragon eggs, when I felt it. Once it passed, I couldn't—he was no longer there…but was there_. _I knew. During the flight, I tried—summoning all the power I had—to reach him, to touch his magic. It wasn't there to touch, and….he fades. Both Merlin _and _Emrys fade. This much—I am sure."

"What does it mean?" Gaius asked worriedly.

"Evil prows; storm clouds have gathered," Kilgharrah growled, his eyes sparking with untamable magic. "Enemies step into the light and toy with things that are beyond them. The young warlock and the Pendragon flounder in the Dark, and it spreads, threatening to consume us all."

"But they are—_were_…_might _be in Lot's kingdom… Even with his attitude towards magic, he is no enemy of Camelot. He couldn't have done something to—" Geoffrey muttered.

Kilgharrah stood to his full height. "No, this stinks of the witch—who knows what she'd do for revenge on Merlin or what she'd do to pull him to her side—but, all in all, it does not matter much _who_. Whoever it is will die," he vowed darkly. "The question is _how_ and _why_. I _must _find them. I must find _him _and to my part to stop whatever Dark magic has been used to contain them all. There is a greater threat in this abominable magic than there is in the witch's threat if Merlin and the Pendragon are caught up in the middle of it."

"We understand, Kilgharrah," Gwen said, struggling to keep her voice steady and hardly able to restrain her tears of panic, "Just…bring them home."

"If there's a home left for them to return to," Leon muttered, his brow creased with anxiety.

"My fear," Kilgharrah said, "is not for Camelot. She's well protected and will stand far longer than the people who fill her, and her memory will echo throughout the ages...even after her walls crumble and fall. The witch will fail in this endeavor, I can assure you. My fear is for the ones who hold her together. For without them, Camelot's rebirthing has been for naught, and we will never see the dawn of the coming golden age."

The Great Dragon took off without once looking back, and his parting words reached their ears like a whisper on the wind: _Be strong, hold firm, and keep hope alive. I shall bring them home…if it's the last thing I do._

The group stared at the Dragon's shrinking form until he disappeared from view behind a cloud, and each of them felt an ominous cloud of despair hanging above their heads and a clawed hand of cold terror reaching for their hearts.

Their Court Sorcerer was…hurt, dying… No one knew.

Their King and Knights were with him…hurt, dying… No one knew.

Things were worse than Gwen could have ever possibly guessed, and _no one knew _what it really was that they were up against now.

The frozen Queen barely heard herself say, "Meet back in the council chambers in an hour" before she turned back to the castle, a mute Gaius, Leon, and Elyan following after a brief delay, and she didn't even realize she had made the painful, barefooted speed-walk to her chambers until she tasted salt on her cheeks and until she felt her cracked, bleeding toenails catch on the coverlet of her bed.

A worn hand consolingly rubbed her shoulder, and with a watery gasp, Gwen pulled her face out of her pillows to see Gaius, his face grey and lined with heavy weariness and apprehension, sitting beside her. He looked far older than his age when he opened his arms to her invitingly.

Gwen, who had been holding in so much of her stress since Arthur had left, finally broke down and released it all, and she knelt on her bed and flung her arms around Gaius' neck.

"Oh, Gaius," she sobbed into his shoulder.

He shushed her gently, and he whispered, "Everything will turn out alright."

"How can you be so sure?" Gwen asked in disbelief.

"I'm not," Gaius said, "I never am. Every time that boy's gone and risked his life, been at Death's door…All I can do is hope. Hope is our last stronghold in the brunt of the storm."

"My _husband… _my _best friend_…"

"They will pull through. They always have."

Gwen sniffled and said in awe, "Gaius, how did you do this on your own for _so many_ years? How did you bear this weight _alone_?"

She meant the magic, of course. Merlin's magic. It had changed everything and nothing. She had grown so comfortable with his powers and with how _powerful _those powers were that this—it hit her all the harder when she fully realized that even Merlin Emrys was not invincible.

Never before had worry plagued her like this.

"Trouble," the elderly physician answered wryly, "is their constant companion. I have merely…accepted it."

With a humorless snort, she broke the embrace, and with sorrowful brown eyes boring into blue, the Queen asked, "Aren't you afraid for them?"

Gaius pulled her to him, and she was surprised when tears that did not belong to her brushed against her skin and gathered in her messy curls.

"I'm afraid that one day Merlin will reach too far, overstep his boundaries, and sink in a hole he dug for himself. I'm afraid that one day Arthur will meet a foe he cannot vanquish, stab at something that cannot be stabbed, and drown in self-loathing if he ever fails at anything he does. The pair of them," he sighed weakly, "are too selfless for their own good.

"Yes, Gwen. Always. I'm _always _afraid for them."

~…~

After Arthur's eyelids fluttered open (he was surprisingly lucid), the first thing he saw was Lot crouching beside Merlin's prone form and carefully placing his cloak over him, and he noticed his Knights watching him care for Merlin's chills with awed shock.

_Merlin_…

Memories of blinding light—blurry and world-tilting—flooded him, and in the forefront, repeating themselves over and over again, were images of decayed gold, pale skin coated with sweat, long fingers interlocked in matted black hair. His lanky body folding in on itself… his screams piercing the recesses of his mind…

When he scrambled up and to Merlin's side, Lot immediately got out of his way and watched as Arthur's sapphire eyes, scoping for major injuries and damage, roved over the Court Sorcerer before latching onto his peacefully slumbering face—he looked so…carefree, so innocent and nothing at all like the frighteningly angry sorcerer who had had towered over Kay—and as his hands gathered the velvety material of the cloak.

"You're an idiot, Merlin," he mumbled, taking his warlock's head into his lap and recalling the intense amount of loyalty the man had displayed in the torture room. "Selfless _idiot_," he reiterated as though the insult-nickname would wake the younger man.

With a pained heart, he absentmindedly placed a hand over Merlin's forehead and brushed back the hair from his eyes. What Merlin had done…he _overcame _the poison. Somehow, someway… he tore through the _unlybba's _hold on his magic, pulled it through—something that was obviously not mean to be _possible_…but at what price? Those screams… Arthur winced. It sounded as though someone was pulling out his ribs through his stomach one by one, and it was his fault that Merlin had gone through that _agony_. His fault…

"I can't believe he did it," he said aloud. "He shouldn't have. Not for me."

The Knights, who had been respectfully silent, stirred, and Percival muttered, "The _strength _it must have taken…is inconceivable."

"He will be alright, won't he?" Arthur asked worriedly. "It hasn't…sped up the drug, has it?"

"He will. The healer—"

"Healer? What healer?"

"Arthur, your back," Lancelot said quietly.

The King blinked in astonishment when he noticed that Lot, who had been in worse shape than even he was, was healed. The Druid marking on his chest was vivid—as it would be forever more—but the injury itself… His hand reached around to his own injuries…

"Kay ordered you and Lot to be healed," Gwaine explained.

"I don't understand," Arthur mumbled as he slowly twisted around, careful not to jostle Merlin. His back only weakly twinged in protest, and when he cautiously experimented further, the scabs did not crack and instead stretched with him. "_Kay_ ordered this?"

"You didn't see him," Lancelot whispered. "It was…"

"Scary," Gwaine finished.

"…_Scary?" _Arthur repeated slowly.

Nodding, Percival added softly, "He just…_snapped_. After Merlin…something _shifted. _He was _afraid_."

Lot, with lowered, vulnerable eyes, was silent during this exchange, and as a deep frown settled both in his brow and on his lips, Arthur felt a surge of pity for the elder king because he understood what it felt like to be betrayed by family, by flesh and blood, by one he loved.

Now that he was up to speed with everything, Arthur's previous despair and fury caught up to him, and he bit his lip as he withheld a scream of frustration. All the corners were tied, all holes and gaps filled…There was no escape from this. Camelot was to fall, Merlin was to be _enslaved _to that _bitch_…

And yet Merlin's success at overcoming the drug brought forth a flicker of hope…

And from that barest spark, a blaze of fiery protectiveness erupted.

Like _hell _he was going to let that happen.

Like hell _Merlin _was going to let that happen.

_Together, then, my friend. As always. _

"Of course he was afraid," Lancelot said. "Merlin changed things. He turned the tide against him and proved to him that he was still dangerous…even at his weakest."

"It was more than that," Lot suddenly muttered, his jade eyes hardening. "He had the eyes of a madman."

Arthur inhaled sharply when the Escetian King, head cocking, shifted forward on his knees next to him and looked down into Merlin's face with a look of remorse, confusion, and some compassion.

"All this—betrayal, treason, torture…for one man," Lot murmured without a single trace of accusation. Instead, Lot spoke in the tone of a man who had just uncovered a great, awe-inspiring mystery and who had just been proved very, very _wrong_. "I heard most of what he had said to Kay. It was…" he sighed and shook his head. "Magic—it is too interwoven into our lives to deny or forsake it. I was a fool. I was blind. Blind to truth. Blind to reason. Blind to _him_…"

Arthur smirked lightly and joked in understanding, "I was, too, until he, with his insolent, bizarre ways, came to open my eyes for me."

Lot's lips twitched into a small smile at Arthur's gentle teasing, but his slightly stinging pride demanded that he keep his eyes on Merlin. "I am sorry I did not see before…just how…_invaluable_ he is."

"Invaluable? There is no word for what he is to us all," Arthur disagreed, a small, fond smile gracing his lips.

Lot's jade eyes flitted to the Camelotian King. "You really care for him."

"He's my brother. I'd give my life for him."

"And he for you. I have never seen a man so dedicated to what he believes in. I have never seen a man so loyal."

With eyes shimmering with resolution and finality, Arthur met the other king's serious gaze and said, "That's because you had not yet met Merlin."

~…~

When Merlin awoke, he was not expecting his head to be comfortably cradled by a soft pillow, so it was only natural that, in his slightly delusional, half-awake state, he sighed with relief, thinking that it all had been a horrible, horrible nightmare that his subconscious had thought would be funny to share and that he, with magic intact, was safe…in his chambers—in Camelot. Arthur, yelling and grumbling about lazy fools and _not _bleeding from a severe whipping, would be barging in any moment now to drag him out of bed…Some hot food would soon be in his belly…

It was a nice dream while it lasted.

As Merlin blinked his bleary eyes open, he saw a blurred face leaning over him, and startled, the warlock yelped and impulsively jolted up, which wasn't too clever of an idea, seeing as the quick, thoughtless reaction only led him to clonk foreheads with the nameless blur.

Snickers erupted around him, and as he groaned and held his smarting head, Arthur hissed, "Gods, Merlin!"

Merlin's eyes flew open to meet the annoyed glare of Arthur Pendragon, whose hand was also rubbing uselessly at his forehead and whose lap he had been sleeping on, and he snapped, "You were hovering over me! What did you expect?"

The King harrumphed, and he commented, "You have a hard head."

"Not that yours is any softer!" the warlock scoffed.

"You two are absolutely _incredible_," Lancelot muttered with mild, awed exasperation, interrupting whatever retort the King had prepared.

The surprised warlock jumped again, and after he, still disoriented, quickly regained his bearings and discovered that he, Arthur, the Knights, who were smiling with hesitant amusement and with searching eyes, and _Lot_, whose chest was… His eyes suddenly widened and roamed over to Arthur, whose back was…

The warlock lunged across the cell to fling his arms around Arthur.

"Arthur!" he cried. "You're alright!" He exhaled a breathy, giddy chuckle. "Thank god. You're alright," he repeated.

~…~

If Arthur could not believe the speed at which his friend shot at him, he was in for an even bigger shock when Merlin, his impish features alight with joy and stormy eyes crinkling, _smiled _widely at him.

_How can he be smiling_? Arthur wondered incredulously. After everything that he had done, after experiencing that overwhelming pain—pain physical, emotional, and mental…

There was no limit to the man before him. None at all.

The warlock, whose infectious grin managed to glean a small smile out of Arthur, hugged him tightly, and when the words of utter relief spilt from his mouth and when tears hit Arthur's shoulder, the King said softly, "Only thanks to you."

"I deserve no thanks," the Court Sorcerer said with a bleak tone of self-loathing. "I've brought this upon us."

"Merlin," Arthur said sharply. "Don't you _dare_."

"I wasn't fast enough," he murmured fiercely into the King's shoulder. "If I had realized…You, Lot…none of you would have gotten hurt."

"Not one of us blame you," Lot suddenly said.

Merlin pulled away in surprise, and still grasping Arthur's wide shoulders, he met Lot's eyes.

"This was beyond us all. Not even you, Merlin Emrys," the Escetian king smirked teasingly, "could have predicted this betrayal."

This was the very indirect, very subtle apology of a prideful man, and Merlin, very familiar with such apologies, smiled, and knowing that the words of his former adversary were spoken with the uttermost truth—Merlin seemed to think that his friends would rather make him feel better than let him shoulder the blame for anything that was or wasn't his fault—guilt ebbed from his eyes and was replaced by gratitude, forgiveness, and newfound determination.

_There _was the Merlin Arthur knew.

"Your—your chest…" Merlin suddenly pointed out.

Lot's nose wrinkled, and he gazed down at his scar. "A reminder. A reminder for the fool who deserved it."

"No man," Merlin said seriously, his eyes blazing dangerously, "no matter how foolish, deserves a reminder like that."

Lot, reading into Merlin's tone, blinked in surprise, and pride forgotten, he asked, "After—after how barbarically I treated you, you _forgive _me?"

Merlin's cheeky smile and quirked eyebrow all but said: _And why wouldn't I? _

Instead of answering further with words, however, the warlock held out a hand, and Lot, taking it without pause, shook.

After Lot released and blushed weakly at the proud smiles on the faces of his allies, Merlin immediately turned to Arthur.

He recognized that face, that gleam in his eye: Merlin _knew _something…or at least, he _found _something and was beginning to piece the puzzle together.

The warlock's voice was strained when he asked rapidly, "But—but how? You and Lot…the scabs…? You've been _healed_?"

Arthur, his sapphire eyes tumultuous and unreadable, waved the questions away and said, "That doesn't matter. I need to know how _you _are_._"

Merlin's face darkened and eyes grew stony as he, searching inside himself, considered Arthur's request and responded slowly, "I don't know. It's…" His brow furrowed, and his eyes closed.

"Merlin?" Arthur asked.

"How were you healed?" Merlin asked suddenly, his eyes still closed.

"Merlin..."

"This is important, Arthur. I need to know."

"Kay." Gwaine answered for Arthur. "He ordered it to be done."

Merlin's eyes, full of shock, flew open, but there was also…was that grim _satisfaction? _

"I knew it," he muttered, leaping to his feet and beginning to pace agitatedly. In his growing excitement and confidence, he blabbered, "When I managed to recall some of my magic, I felt it. Well, I felt two things, really, but I didn't realize until now what eith—"

"What are you going on about?" Lot interrupted.

Merlin chose to ignore the king and instead demanded, "Tell me exactly what happened after I fainted."

"Merlin, what—?"

"Patience, please, Perce," Merlin muttered, his eyes growing brighter and brighter. "I need to know. It might hold the link I seek."

Confused and hesitant at the sight of their frazzled, wild-eyed Court Sorcerer and his frantic anticipation, they retold what had happened, and Merlin listened attentively, his face completely blank.

Once they were done, Merlin, eyes now alight and inflamed with promise, purpose, and _hope_, sat back and ran a hand through his hair, and Arthur asked, "Did you find your link?"

"I was right," the warlock began quickly. "Kay's been manipulated by Morgana."

"How can you be sure?" Lot asked.

"It wasn't until I used magic against him that I recognized it, and what you've told me...more evidence."

Because he was so attuned to his friend's thoughts and his crazy way of seeing the world through their strong bond, it clicked together in his mind immediately, and he exclaimed, "Merlin, you're brilliant!"

"What?" Lancelot demanded.

"Kay's been drugged_,_" the two said simultaneously.

"But—but that would mean…" Lot gasped.

Merlin's stormy, shining eyes were confirmation enough, and he explained further to the gaping group of men, "I felt a hint of the Dark magic in him with my magic, which, having been contained by the poison itself, recognized it at once. Morgana must have slipped him the smallest of doses when she found him to use as her pawn. It twisted his mind...and she made it so that he had no choice but to act on his darkest insecurities and thoughts. So that he couldn't back out. So that he _couldn't_ turn on her. I dunno if he ever truly wanted to help her or if he just considered it when he felt that Lot's ascension to the throne was the last straw…whatever it was that brought him to her or her to him, it was the drug sealed his fate. That fear you saw…his apparent madness… he's _fighting _it!

"And that is what we must do before all is lost."

From his pocket, Merlin removed the philosopher's stone.

* * *

><p>(1) I know Gwen wears flats in the show, but I felt boots were more badass. Deal with it. ;P<p>

(2) Inspired by a spoiler costume pic

(3) Inspired by the connection shared by dragon and Dragon Rider in the "Inheritance" series, which I do not own.

(4) This is most likely wrong, but for the sake of the story, I'm assuming it's right.

AN: *evil grin* Did I surprise you? I certainly hope so... because even I wasn't so sure I was going to do that until I wrote this chapter. ;) I got lazy and didn't edit well, so if there're any mistakes, let me know, please.

Oz out.

PS. I won't be around the rest of this week, if you care to know. I'll be at my university's orientation. ;) Wish me luck!


	17. Purpose

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: Heh... so... *drops off chapter and hightails it outta here as fast as she can without tripping* :P

Naw, I'm not that cowardly. :D I want to thank everyone who demanded that I get off my butt and update, for without them, I wouldn't have gotten around to trying to see if my writer's block broke until after I finished Only Friend. I'm so, so sorry for the wait. :)

The month break between chapters put me a little off, so I hope that this doesn't seem too repetitive (from other chapters, I mean) and feel...meh. It's not a very exciting chapter. Not at all. We've got a Kay POV (see lyrics) and then :O *gasps* a Morgana appearance?! After 16 chapters?! :P Yes, indeed we do have a small Morgana bit before I tie everything up with a bit of bromance, which certainly isn't my best. :)

Hope it was worth the wait. Enjoy:

* * *

><p>"<em>Seeing myself this way<em>

_I am a monster I believe_

_And seeing is believing_

_Is there no doubt left?_

_When I wake up, I poison myself_

_And poison leaves no appetite_

_I sicken myself so much_

_I sicken myself so_

_Whatever I fear the most is whatever I see before me_

_Whenever I let my guard down, whatever I was ignoring_

_Whatever I fear the most is whatever I see before me_

_Whatever I have been given, whatever I have been."_

(Song: "Whatever I Fear" from Toad the Wet Sprocket's 1997 album Coil)

* * *

><p><strong>Purpose<strong>

He did not know how long he knelt on the stone floor. He did not feel the blood—Arthur's blood—on his hands begin to stiffen nor did he feel his neck throb as faint lilac-purple bruises blossomed from the abuse it had suffered. He was not even aware that as he cradled his head, he rocked or that his eyes were alternatively fixated on the blood-soaked whip and the carefully organized vials upon vials of Lybb.

All he knew for sure was that something was _wrong_.

Kay felt ill…very much ill. It wasn't just because his vision spotted and head spun, and it wasn't that those hovering, haunting eyes taunted him from every angle, every direction. No matter where he looked, no matter how tightly he screwed his eyes shut, no matter how he tried to hide within himself, they followed, as did the monster, which—no… _who_ jeered and laughed at him as he trembled.

He wasn't in control…not of his own body, which had not yet ceased its interminable shaking and convulsing, and certainly not of his own mind, which tumbled over itself and scrambled for a hold on anything _real. _

Before his darkening teal eyes, the definition of reality had blurred, and the borderline between sanity and insanity, vice and virtue, ceased to exist.

The vehement, _lusty_ satisfaction, which sent him riding high and mighty and which made his chest constrict with pleasure beyond all pleasures, took possession of him, but, no sooner than he became convinced of his victory and his righteousness and the noble necessity of proving to the Magic and to the Sword just who was Master, a horrid, dark _guilt_—the Magic and Sword's smiles appearing and blue eyes _glowing _with unforgiving anger and the power he had begun to respect _and _the lighthearted humor he had come to know and love—tore through him, tossing him from the mighty steed of selfish triumph and sending him crashing into a black hole of misery and horror.

After such a dreadful fall and after wondering how he could've ever survived such a fall, it frightened him that he would pick himself up again to ride the very same steed…because he was very much aware that he would fall again into that consuming hole of guilt.

And did he dread that fall. He dreaded it _almost _as much as he dreaded mounting again. For in mounting, Kay knew it was the monster that took control. In falling, on the other hand, it was him, but… being him never had _hurt _so much.

That dread—his fear—that was _beyond _any control. It raged and pranced with a high head—the very same head of the monstrous beast he rode and crashed from time and time again. It mocked him with eyes and nostrils spitting flame, with its perfect, blacker-than-night coat shining like the stars above, with its foaming bit, with a neigh that sounded far too much like Merlin's screams…

Kay took a shuddering breath, and a cry escaped his lips. He didn't know what to think, what to believe, what to _feel, _and with an unnatural pitch ringing jarringly in his ears, his mind, conscience, stomach, and heart somersaulted head-over-heels, heels-over-head as he remounted and fell, fell and remounted...

_Get a _grip _on yourself_, _Kay_, he growled to himself. _Should Merlin or, heaven forbid, Arthur see you now_…

That thought alone kindled the spluttering fire in his breast—he would _not _be seen as weak before any man…not before those lingering eyes and certainly not before himself—and Kay found the strength to shove away his emotions, to ignore the monster and the eyes and the stomping steed, and to stand to his full height.

He now stood on shaky ground. The strange emotionless calm he now felt…it seemed to signify a tense parley, of sorts, between two mortal enemies.

_Coward_, his mind told him. _Fleeing from your emotions like a heartbroken girl_.

_ Victor_, the other-self told him. _Containing your emotions like a man born to rule._

Damn the blood on his hands. It irritated him. Arthur's blood was on his hands. It was rather disgusting…and it stung. Worse than any wasp's sting.

Frantically, he scrambled for the jug of water that had been left for Lot—it was still half-full—and after pouring the clean, pure water over his tainted, stained hands, he scrubbed away the impurities so fiercely that his hands were raw by the time he stopped.

The blood was still there. Still there. He couldn't see it anymore, but the memory of it there… It still stung.

Suddenly fatigued and hungry to the point of fainting, he, sweating and aching, sighed, leaned heavily against one of the long benches, and ran a shaky, damp, and stinging hand through his light copper hair before gently brushing his fingertips along his bruised throat.

It shouldn't have been possible. The drug was perfectly calibrated and specially designed to contain the Emrys, and yet… _he broke free_. The sight of the dark rotted gold being consumed by a gold as bright as the sun…it was just as much a thrilling, inspiring sight as it was a terrifying one. Until that very moment that the sorcerer broke free of the drug, Kay didn't think that he had understood just _what_ the Emrys was.

Just what _Merlin _was.

Before he was sent to Camelot, he had heard of the new Court Sorcerer's prowess and accomplishments, but it wasn't until he, after being exposed to the warlock's bizarre ways, sense of humor, and _sunny_ personality, actually _witnessed_ Merlin's power and the ferocity with which he protected those he cared for and with which those he cared for protected _him_—the amount of loyalty and love binding the Camelotians was unheard of—during the Crocotta attack that he even had the slightest idea.

Arthur's prophetic words rang in his ears: _He would do __anything __to protect his friends, Kay. Betray his trust or loyalty, cross him, or hurt someone he cares about, and you have made yourself one formidable enemy. Remember that._"

At the time, he, who had just been saved by Merlin's quick thinking and powerful spell-casting and was damn well grateful, couldn't help but feel a glimmer of amusement at the words because he knew that, at the end of the day, _he _would be the formidable enemy.

But, in that very same moment, something changed. Something flipped. Something clicked.

The budding fondness he felt towards the warlock and the Knights—even the renewed relationship with Arthur… he realized he enjoyed himself in their company. With them, laughing and smiling and bickering and learning and reconnecting and battling for their lives, he was _alive_, and for the first time, doubt nibbled at his soul. For the first time, he second-guessed his desires and his goals…

But, it was so _muddled_. The ever-present fear made it so, and then there was the overpowering sense of weakness that had plagued him all his life—the feeling that he wasn't good enough and would never be and that, in comparison to these men, he was absolutely _nothing, _and all he ever wanted was to be _something_—and upon his return to Livandir, when he, anger, envy, and greed returning, set his eyes upon his dear _cousin _once more and stood silently as he and Camelot's King conversed, it became all too clear to him that the path he had chosen was the path on which he would remain.

Whatever happiness he felt with them Kay brushed off as a silly illusion (how could his rivals ever make him _happy_? It was simply ridiculous), and he became convinced that there was never any question about his path of choice.

Any fondness was eclipsed. Any gratefulness, gone. Besides, those emotions, she had said, she had warned, made one weak. She had told him not to be charmed, not to feel as though he owed them anything, not to see them as anything more than pawns and stepping-stones. She had made him well aware that the two's tendency to see good in everyone would be their very downfall...and from there, it'd be easy.

It wasn't easy.

Not with the friendship and the lightheartedness he had forsaken. Not with the new memories of Camelot. Not with having actually met Merlin. Not with Arthur's newfound maturity, compassion, and goodness. Not with their bond so clear to him. Not with Merlin's biting words. Not with the dreadful feeling that Merlin was _right_. Not with the screams and the eyes and the genuine smiles and the bravery that Merlin had displayed that night and the kindness and the strange guilt that some part of him repelled and hated and that another part embraced… and clung to like a man who had gotten a little too close to the edge of a cliff and had only just managed to catch the side to avoid falling.

But, when Morgana had promised everything he could have ever wanted—freedom from his fear, from his damned fate, from his worthless existence—surely he was just tired and needed a good long sleep to clear his mind and refocus on his mission?

No, it didn't change the fact that he was clinging and scrambling. It didn't change the fact that it hurt and that it felt _right _to hurt.

_I know you're better than this. This isn't you._

_I belong to no one but myself. _

_You're lucky that he didn't kill you._

_ If this is you, as you say, then your father would be ashamed to see you now. _

Circles upon circles. Uther, Ector, Lot, Arthur, Godwin, Merlin… Circling like hawks about to make a kill. Confusion upon confusion and insecurity upon insecurity…

What was right? _Who _was right?

And gods help him—what the hell was _wrong_?

Reality blurring, unreality sharpening. And back again. Sins, lies, shame, and glory all laid out before him…

A rippling roar exploded from his chest, and as his fist went crashing into the table, he was surprised to feel a lone tear leak from the corner of his eye.

Kay couldn't allow himself to wonder what his father, who was a man he had revered and loved all his life, would have done in this situation. No, not when he was trying to prove to himself that he wasn't a coward who only relied upon the courage of others.

But maybe, he suddenly realized, instead of dwelling on his father, Morgana, or Arthur and Merlin, he should think of only himself and ask: _what do _I _believe? _

And what was it that he thought was right? Was it right for _him_… or was it right for others? Did he care enough to ask whether or not he wanted anything for anyone but himself?

Then there was the question that had Merlin's voice and Arthur's voice, overlapping and echoing…

_What is it you live for_? _And what is it you'd die for?_

A few more tears leaked from his eyes when he realized that he had no answer.

No answer at all.

And he couldn't find in him to envy Magic _or _Sword…because he knew that they, despite their differences, fought as one and that their counterparts would have and could have responded to those very questions in a fraction of a heartbeat.

Or less.

~…~

Self-conscious of his men's vaguely interested, concerned, and perturbed stares, Kay, who already caught himself mumbling under his breath, darting his eyes to everyone and everything, and jumping at more than one whisper of a sound, buttoned up his jacket and pulled his collar up over the bruising to hide it from their lackluster gazes, and he glared at them—those haunting orbs floated above their heads—until they shrugged, ignored him, and went about their business.

From the way some of them rushed, they were most likely about to get their dose of Lybb for the day, which had just dawned again.

No wonder he was so drained. He had been up all this night and the night before…

It had taken a considerable amount of effort for Kay to finally compose himself enough to leave the torture chambers, and even then, he coerced and encouraged himself with the simple motivations of a few hours' sleep and some warm food. Both of which, he assured himself, would banish the eyes, the headache, and the jitteriness in not only his body but also in his mind and heart.

Had his men's eyes not been on him, however, this motivation could hardly have been enough to keep him from dragging his feet as he walked, but since his men's eyes _did _follow him, straight-backed, confident, and proud he must appear.

But, honestly, what did he care what they thought when most of them were drugged beyond the point of being able to retain any personality or individual thought whatsoever?

Kay felt sick to his stomach as the guilt and satisfaction flipped his gut upside down.

No food at all for him then, it would seem.

Once he emerged from the secret lower levels of the castle (which he had discovered quite by accident and had, upon his visit to the library, discovered that that section had been hastily blocked off and declared 'forbidden' after the defeat of the barbaric, cruel warlord who had Livandir built), he met none of his own men and hardly any of Lot's (thank the gods), who all had been told that their king and the Camelotian royal were subjecting themselves to a long private meeting before asking any of the advisors from either kingdom to join them.

Concerning the sorcerer and fellow Knights of Arthur's party—should someone ask of them—it was rumored that Arthur had told them (Merlin and Gwaine, particularly) not to leave their rooms and wreck havoc while he was in his meeting with Lot.

While the nasty storm to the east that was sneaking speedily towards Escetia's capital made it easy to see why the Camelotians wouldn't be outside exploring (a bit of good fortune, that was) and while the supposed "rumor" was very much true to Arthur's character, Kay, who knew that the entire story was riddled with gaping holes, still wondered how it was that everyone managed to fall for it when anyone who had heard the stories could never, _ever _see Merlin Emrys following an order like that.

_They trust you_. _That's why_.

Shaking his head viciously, Kay snarled under his breath and shoved upon his bedchamber door with his shoulder, and once the door was shut none-too-gently, he, bracing his forearm across the wood and placing his burning forehead against his arm, allowed his face to crumble, gnashed his teeth, and felt himself trembling.

"Rough night?"

Kay yelped and spun around to see Morgana sitting on the edge of his dining table, her legs crossed lazily so that the hem of her tattered black dress brushed the floor and her arms folded across her chest. Quickly slipping his mask on and clasping his shaking hands behind his back, he noticed that her cloak was already hung to dry and that she, with the barest trace of suspicion at the signs of his fragile moment, watched him with an eager, predatory glint in her pale eyes.

She smirked with amusement at his reaction and cocked her head when he sighed unhelpfully, "You could say that, my Lady."

After studying him with eyes that seemed to bore through his soul, she said, "You could use a bit of a pick-me-up, I think." Slipping fluidly off the table, she turned to pour some cider, which had been left by a servant with his breakfast, into two glasses. Her beautiful black tresses—he had always admired her hair back in Camelot—bounced across her back, and despite her exile, diminished status, and poorer dress, she still moved with the grace and pride of a princess. "Here."

Kay took the cup silently, and with his stomach still flipping unpleasantly, he, reluctant and wary to put anything into his mouth, wrinkled his nose and licked his lips. Unwilling to offend the witch, however, he sipped at the drink and released a moaning sigh as with that one sip, his head cleared, stomach stopped its acrobat act, and quivering muscles stilled.

It felt _good_ and _warm_ (he had not realized how cold he had been) to put something into his stomach. He shouldn't let himself go hungry or thirsty any more, he decided airily. Made strange things happen. Eyes and stinging hands and terrifying monsters and steeds and caverns of guilt…had he really been as mad as to imagine himself seeing those things?

He was so relieved to be released from those pesky emotions and to see said eyes' unblinking gazes begin to fade that he, feeling elated, carefree, and confident once again in her presence, took another larger sip and only vaguely noticed Morgana smile over the lip of her cup and then place it, still full, aside.

"Better?" she asked, taking one of his hands.

"Yes, thank you. It was exactly what I needed," he responded as he pulled out a chair for her before taking a seat at the table himself.

With a smirk on her pale, chapped lips, lips that once were as full and perfect as a rose blossom, she inclined her head and purred, "Good."

The animalistic fire in her eyes took on a mischievous glint—he suddenly cringed when he found himself comparing that glint with Merlin's…so different. One light, one dark—and he, feeling his heartbeat quicken, smiled broadly at her.

Even after all these years, she still had this effect on him.

So much, he had to remind himself, had changed since a young, pretty Morgana, the Morgana who had first charmed him, had been placed into Uther's care. She was now a full grown woman with little love for Camelot left in her heart and was now a powerful, powerful sorceress who used her strength of will—a gift of Uther's, he had no doubt—to fight for what she thought was right (this she had not lost over the years, even if what she fought for had changed)…and for what she felt belonged to her.

When he had learned of what she had done—and that she was Uther's daughter and therefore Arthur's sister, no less—he was horrified, but mostly, he mourned the loss of someone dear to him.

But it became clear to him that she wasn't lost at all. She was _reborn_.

She had come to him at one of his lowest points—it had become clear that Lot was going to become King and that had only reminded him of his life's many, many failures—and during one of hers—Morgause, who Kay had absolutely no love for, was dying—asking for his help, detailing her plan, and promising a wonderful, wonderful reward.

He remembered being discomforted by the feral darkness in her eyes, but with her enchanting, spellbinding words, with her addicting passion and hatred, and with his heart having begun to harden against the very same people who had ruined him and had made him hate himself, he was all too easily convinced.

When Morgause finally drew her last breath, another change came over Morgana. Any light was gone from her countenance, and there was a strange, _mad _drive, ruthlessness, and confidence appeared in an even stronger form than before.

It befitted her, he had thought. It began with learning of Merlin's Druidic name and Emrys' true name, but Morgause's death pushed her above and beyond reckoning.

It was then that she cracked the code and found it all. The Dark Age's secrets and the Dark enchantments needed to take Emrys' magic away. And thereby keeping her side of the deal and sticking perfectly to her ingenious plan.

But this meeting wasn't part of the plan. And she made it quite clear that if something didn't go to plan, it was bad news.

Concern for her suddenly flashed through him, and he asked, "Has something happened, Morgana? Why are you here?"

Morgana pretended to look offended as she said, "Aren't you happy to see me, Kay?" Hearing his name on her lips sent a thrilling chill down his spine. "Do I need to have a reason to be here to see you and exchange news?"

"Camelot?" he asked, feeling the inexplicable desire and _need_ to keep the conversation away from Arthur and Merlin for a few moments longer.

Her green eyes lit up, and releasing a dark bark of laughter, she mocked, "Dear Queen Guinevere has committed Camelot to siege." A smug grin worked its way onto her face, and she added boldly, "Little good it'll do them. Not with the forces we've gathered. And even with the Druids on their side and the Great Dragon—well, he has not been seen by my spies for days, the storms have made it nigh impossible to fly, and even if he does make it to battle, he will not be too keen to attack his own Dragon-lord, and his hesitation will be enough for me to Bind him to me through Merlin... And without their little King and his pet sorcerer…" Morgana shrugged.

The cider was sweet on his tongue, and despite a twinge in his chest, he laughed with her and said in a tone that hardly seemed his own to his own ears, "Camelot will be in the hands of its rightful ruler in no time, my Lady."

"Camelot will fall," she agreed, "within two days time when Merlin is delivered to me."

A pinprick of unease jolted him, and he absentmindedly swirled the contents of his goblet as Morgana sighed wistfully in a voice that grew darker and crueler with each word, "How I would have given to be here…to see him suffer. To see them both suffer."

When he didn't respond, Morgana, with a flash of irritable impatience marring her features, ordered, "Tell me about it, Kay. It is done, I should hope?"

The sweetness of the cider coated his tongue and left behind a strange taste in his mouth. "You're quick to doubt me, Morgana," Kay muttered angrily, his mind buzzing. "Of course it is done."

The resulting smirk was blinding, and she snickered, "Perfect. Am I right to assume that your merciful offer went unheeded?"

"You assume right," Kay, licking the sweetness from his lips and feeling his gut roll unpleasantly again, answered simply in a tone one part bitter, one part satisfied, and two parts… emotionless. The buzzing drowned out how _off_ he sounded, but with a sudden jolt of fear, he knew that he would have to tell her about what Merlin was capable of…

She would _not _be happy at this development. No, that was an understatement. The witch would be downright _furious_.

But, he must tell her. Of course he must. It was his duty to her. To ensure her success.

If he didn't tell her…

_What then?_ A small corner of his mind wondered.

Morgana's eyes narrowed at him, and Kay, sweat suddenly trickling down his spine, avoided her piercing gaze in favor of taking another sip of his drink.

"Was there any trouble from them?" she asked slowly, suspiciously.

The cider's saccharinity made his very teeth tingle and tickle, and the buzzing grew louder in his head, drowning out all thoughts…

_Wrong_, he instincts whispered at him. _Wrong_.

Merlin's words, unbidden and unwanted, floated across his memory.

_ Don't you see that she's using you, Kay? Don't you see she's using you as a pawn for her twisted entertainment and for her own ends? She's manipulating you! She's feeding the darkest of your emotions, the darkest parts of yourself, and forcing them to the surface. I know you're better than this. This isn't you._

Using him? Surely not, but… with a frightening amount of effort, he dragged himself from the stifling blanket of security and laziness and comfort and pleasant warmth covering him, making him slip further and further into sleep…

_No_.

The word 'yes' had been on his lips when suddenly, with a ferocious lance of pain stabbing through his head and a pang racking his heart, he heard himself _lying_, "Just the usual stubbornness, my Lady. And Merlin's sharp tongue. He said quite colorful things, as expected," he joked with a forced amusement, "but nothing more."

The taste in his mouth was becoming acrid, and with a raspy throat, he swallowed with difficulty around the panic building in him once again.

What the hell was happening to him? What words were his and which were that beast's?

_What is it you live for_? _And what is it you'd die for?_

Why was he so sleepy? Why was he losing control of his own speech and emotions, which were calm and then tumultuous and then painful and then cheery and then calm again?

_What is it you live for? And what is it you'd die for?_

Two opposite forces inside him fought head to head, snarling and snapping like wolves. Rearing and spinning like warhorses.

After staring at him a moment longer than necessary, Morgana seemed to detect no dishonesty, and snorting, she rolled her eyes. "As expected, indeed. I don't know if I'm impressed or annoyed that even after his magic was leeched—" Kay hid a sudden gag behind a cough "—from him that he still felt well enough to fight back."

A thoughtful look passed her face, and she mused greedily, "It's really a shame Emrys' loyalty was never ours to command, and it's _almost _a shame that I'll be extinguishing that fight in him at all."

Abruptly, the witch bared her teeth into a devilish, malicious grin. "Nope. It really won't be a shame at all. When his power's tied to mine…" She trailed off and asked, "Anything else of interest happen?"

"I—" He compulsively took another sip of the sweet cider to get ride of the nasty taste in his mouth, and feeling detached from himself once more, a horrifying shudder overtook him. "I had Arthur whipped…to spite Merlin."

Morgana blinked at him before breaking out into peals of vicious laughter. "Beautiful, Kay!" she exclaimed. "You're doing even better than I had hoped. Merlin's reaction—"

He didn't hear her next words. The sweet cider…it was sickly sweet. Too sweet. Far too sweet. Sickening. Dizzy. Stomach churning and vomit inducing…

It was only at the sound of his name that Kay snapped out of his trance.

"Kay, what the hell happened?" Morgana asked bluntly.

Her eyes were locked on his neck, where a small portion of dried blood and his bruises peeked over his collar. Flipping up the fabric again, he growled spontaneously with a nonchalant shrug, "We ran into a pack of Crocotta on the way here. Gave us some trouble. It's taking far longer to heal than it should."

_The second lie_. That was the second lie he'd told…

To cover Merlin's back.

_Why?_

Whatever Kay had expected, he certainly had not expected Morgana to snicker and ask him gleefully, "Did you like them? They really are gorgeous beasts, aren't—"

Slobbering jaws overflowing with sharp teeth, huge, deathly paws, purple and crimson blood mixing, the green-yellow pus of Sannan's bite wound…

Kay stood abruptly, knocking the rest of his drink all over the table, and burning in his teal eyes was a flash of a bizarre rage—_loathing_, his mind told him…strange, _this _was loathing? But…he loathed Arthur…he loathed Uther…No, what was this? He had never loathed Morgana. Never.

Or so he thought.

Morgana made a _tsk_ing noise against the roof of her mouth. "Now look what you've gone and done," she chided as though he was a small child. "I'll pour you another."

Bile rose in his throat, and he whispered in a forceful, undeniable tone, "No."

Morgana's hand paused mid-reach, and she raised an eyebrow at him.

Taking a breath to calm himself, he said stiffly, "Are you telling me that you're the one that sent the Crocotta after us?"

An exasperated look traveled across her face, and her chin tilted proudly and defiantly. "Of course I summoned them," she sneered. "Why is it such a big deal, Kay? I felt Merlin and Arthur needed a bit of a…challenge before reaching Livandir. I couldn't just _let _them waltz in without something to detain them. Where's the fun in that?"

"Some good men almost died because of your actions, Morgana," Kay hissed. "For a little bit of _entertainment!"_

Morgana waved her hand dismissively. "What does it matter when I knew that you, Arthur, and Merlin would survive? You were all that mattered to me. Besides Kay," she snapped, "It was more a test than _entertainment_, as you put it."

The blazing fury cleared his head, and in a wave, his horror and previous guilt—and _only _his guilt, which was not accompanied by that disgusting glee—came rushing back to him, making him feel more like himself and more in control than he had felt in months. "Do you regularly sacrifice your men for your so-called _tests_?"

Without realizing it, he had repeated Merlin's exact accusation, and he winced with the revelation that he neglected to have in the torture chambers.

Smirking, Morgana leered, "Seeing as only one of those men was yours or mine, Kay, I wouldn't expect you to feel anything if one of them was killed."

"No, it wasn't just Alan. There was still I _and _your precious prizes you risked losing. Those other men—" he had the instinctual urge to tread very carefully here "—they might be Arthur's and Lot's, but they didn't deserve to die like that."

He saw her hypocrisy for the very first time. While scoffing and cursing Merlin, who in her eyes was still just Arthur's buffoon of a manservant, for being Emrys and underestimating how he _used _his power as well as how strong the bond between Emrys and the Once and Future King really was, she continuously _over_estimated the Emrys' power and his boundaries...

_Merlin's _power and boundaries…

She had never looked so flawed in his eyes. And her magic and her cause…

Kay could see that Morgana was irate, but she said with a deceptively silky, soothing voice, "There was no risk, Kay. Trust me."

She brushed her lips against his cheek and pouted, "Will it help if I said sorry?"

The ex-knight, however, could see in her merciless, cold eyes that the wrong answer would not help his case in any way.

You don't double-cross a witch. And you certainly don't double-cross Morgana Pendragon without serious repurcussions.

With his rage draining—taking his boldness with it—a lace of fear crept up his limbs, and cursing himself, he said docilely with a false impishness, "Only if you insist."

Smugness melted the frostiness in her face, and she condescendingly patted his cheek. "Well, I must be getting on to my army. I expect you in two days, Sir Kay. With _Merlin Emrys_."

Without waiting for his response and after muttering a few words under her breath in the Old Tongue, Morgana disappeared, and Kay, once she was gone, snarled wordlessly.

The snarl lacked ferocity, but it was hardly a snarl of wrath. It was a snarl of confusion, desperate, desperate confusion.

Lately, he had scorned his knight's title, but no one had ever once called him Sir Kay with that amount of mockery before.

And he, at the moment free from his internal conflict, decided that he didn't like that. At all.

_You've sealed yourself into an inescapable trap of your own making_, Merlin had said.

_Neither of you will succeed, Kay. That is a promise. I don't break promises._

Kay put his head into his hands.

~…~

"Mate, that's a rock."

"Yes, Gwaine," Merlin said patiently with his stormy eyes locked on the philosopher's stone. "It is a rock."

"Merlin. Mate. That's a bloody _rock_."

"Gwaine!" Tearing his eyes away, Merlin, exasperated but amused, rolled his eyes at the wayward Knight, and explained cryptically, "It's not just _any _rock."

Trying to ignore his friends' looks at him—they quite obviously thought he had gone mad (what else was new?) and were waiting for a proper explanation—he swallowed away a wave of nausea, forcibly controlled his hands to cease trembling, and turned back to the stone.

It was hard. Pretending.

Merlin wanted nothing more than to lie down and _sleep_…but he couldn't let the others know that the healer had lied to them.

He was most certainly _not _alright.

After the overwhelming rush of relief that Arthur, Lot, and the others were none the worse for what had happened in the torture chambers, it hit Merlin just how much _weaker_ he felt, and using every ounce of willpower in him to keep his eyes from fluttering shut, to keep his limbs from falling to his sides, and to keep his teeth from gnashing, he realized that, while the stinging in his soul and the nausea was still horrid, the _weakness, _his sluggish movements, slow reaction times, dizziness, the cold—yes, the cold that, despite his cloak, which had been returned to him, seeped into his skin, into his bones, blood, mind, and very spirit… it was far worse.

It meant that he was fading and that if he succeeded in using his magic again, it'd only sap further at the little strength that he had left in his body.

He still had life left to live. He couldn't let this happen. Not to him, not to Arthur, not to Camelot and her people.

There! A spark! But no…it slipped away, leaving the stone black as night…

So, even though his concentration threatened to slip at any moment in his fatigue, Merlin focused on the _sóþwundor _and searched and probed it for that _something _more he had felt but couldn't find…that spark…

"A bit anticlimactic, Merlin," Percival said. "Even for you."

Merlin sighed wearily and said sarcastically, "Thanks, Perce."

"Merlin," Arthur said gently, worry lacing his tone. "You said that you couldn't sense its energy."

"Its…_energy_?" Lot repeated, looking at the small black stone skeptically.

Arthur nodded. "It can store an immense amount of energy, and thankfully, only a few sorcerers have the power to ever access that energy to harness for themselves."

"So how's this supposed to help us?" Lancelot asked, catching on quickly. "If Merlin can't draw from its stores without—um…"

Merlin growled suddenly and effectively cut off Lancelot, who looked at him in astonishment. "Without my magic," he finished bluntly. "No need to spare my feelings, Lancelot, and no need to speak about me as though I'm not here," he muttered.

This sent the group into a dejected, stunned silence, but soon enough it was broken by Lot, who said cautiously, "But you tapped into your powers."

Merlin bit his lip, and hating himself, he whispered, "At great personal cost. Now, please, shut up, you lot. I'm trying to focus."

"But—"

"These stones are formed out of fallen stars," Merlin said. "They're more rare than any jewel or gem found here in the five kingdoms or elsewhere. Kilgharrah—the Great Dragon—" he amended for Lot's benefit "—told me that not even dragons know the full extent of a _sóþwundor_'s power. And in that room, I know that I _felt _something. And whatever that something is…it reached for my magic. If I can find it again…"

Arthur's eyes shone with a glimmer of hope that made Merlin smile and made him all the more determined, but the others, frowning, continued to look doubtfully at him and the stone in his hand.

"So because of a _feeling_—" Lot began cynically.

"Do you have a better idea?" Merlin retorted with a quirked eyebrow.

Lot pursed his lips and sat back with a grumpy harrumph while Arthur asked, "What do you need us to do, Merlin?"

Bolstered by Arthur's support and feeling a rush of affection for him, he said, unable to keep the exhaustion from his voice, "Just be patient. And quiet."

His King's concerned ocean blue eyes—he should have known Arthur would be able to see directly through the mask he was displaying to them—skipped around his face, and finally, seemingly satisfied by the determined fire in his Court Sorcerer's eyes, he exchanged a look with his men and agreed, "Alright."

~…~

To say that Arthur wasn't worried about Merlin was a definite lie.

He was _beyond_ the point of worry.

Having watched Merlin sit statue-still and stare at a stone for an hour with hardly a single flinch or blink, with his face stony and emotionless, and with his stormy eyes misty and distanced, Arthur felt he had every right to be.

When the King had imagined the horror of Morgana enslaving Merlin to her, this was the exact image that had come up—Merlin unrecognizing, Merlin cold, Merlin unable to express any genuine emotion, Merlin using his magic to destroy with that blank, blank face…Merlin, alive but without his soul and spirit, as though he was one of the undead.

Frankly, it didn't just unnerve him. It _scared_ him.

The others, with nothing better to do, had dropped off to sleep a long time ago, but Arthur had been resolved to sit up with Merlin and keep vigil.

Merlin had done the same for him time and time again.

So, after that hour of _nothing_, Arthur was startled enough to jump what felt like a meter off the floor when Merlin's whole form sagged, when his brow furrowed deeply, when his eyes hardened, and when, with a muffled yell of frustration, he threw the stone at the wall.

It ricocheted off the cell wall with a small _click_ and rolled its way to Arthur, who with a sinking heart, deftly picked it up and surveyed it for damage.

Avoiding his King's eyes, Merlin ran a hand through his matted, tousled raven locks and mumbled in a thick, cracking voice, "Sorry. I didn't realize you were awake."

Arthur, who wished he could have the words to reassure Merlin, said nothing and tipped the stone back into Merlin's open palm. Instead, he leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and breathed, "Is there no hope for us?"

"There is always hope, Arthur."

The King swiftly flickered his eyes to his warlock, whose voice was strong with stubborn defiance and the flame of fervor and whose multifaceted blue eyes, while red-rimmed, showed no trace of tears.

His face was so pale and his eyes so glassy that he looked half-dead.

"Merlin," Arthur said, swallowing roughly. "You're worse, aren't you?"

"That doesn't matter," Merlin said dismissively.

"Well, it sure as hell matters to me!" Arthur exploded, not caring if he woke the others. "I won't have you dying on me, Merlin. I forbid it."

With a wry smile, Merlin turned the stone over in his fingers and said, "Since when has _forbidding _me from anything ever worked out for you?"

Arthur glared at Merlin, who met his eyes steadfastly, before giving up and cracking a grin, which Merlin then mirrored. "It hasn't," he admitted.

"Someone give the prat a reward," Merlin teased. "He's finally figured it out."

Scowling, the King said stubbornly, "Don't believe that I won't stop trying, _Mer_lin. You know I live for those random moments that you actually _do _obey a direct order without a single wisecrack in retort. Haven't you learned who I am by now?"

Rolling his eyes, Merlin imitated Arthur's voice at its most supercilious and pompous and said loftily, "You are the _King_, dammit!"

"Exactly," Arthur said, amused by Merlin's efforts. "So I'll forbid you as much as I like."

After brightening slightly at the joke, the humor immediately died from Merlin's eyes, and he said almost inaudibly, "Not this time."

Locking eyes with his warlock and freezing at what he saw there and at the realization that dawned upon him, Arthur's eyes widened, and the cold claws of panic tightened around his chest.

"No," Arthur whispered hoarsely. "No, Merlin. You can't possibly—"

Merlin's hand clenched around the stone in a death grip, and he vowed in a low voice, "I will stop at nothing, Arthur, to keep us out of Morgana's hands. Nothing. I, as both Emrys and Merlin, have pledged my life, my magic, my very soul to _you _and Camelot, and _no _amount of Dark magic can take that right away from me. And I swear to you, I will protect you or die at your side (1). And I just want you to know that if dying means that you and Camelot have a better chance to survive—"

"You will _not _sacrifice yourself like that. Morgana will _not _have you or your magic. I _swore _that we'd work through this!" Arthur exclaimed. From the corner of his eye, he saw the stone…the jet-black color _rippled_ like a pond that had had a pebble dropped into it. "I swore that we'd keep you from Morgana's clutches—no, Merlin! Listen! _You _are the key, and you can't worry about me when you should be worrying about _yourself_—and we're going to find a way to return your magic to you. We'll save Camelot. As we always have."

Merlin's eyes, which had been so empty upon discovering his magic missing and which were now full of life and purpose, flickered with renewed hope and compassion, and he said, "The odds have never been this great, my friend, but the pair of us... our fates cannot end here."

"No, they can't. And they won't. We'll be all the stronger when we pull through."

"Why can't Destiny leave us be for once and go bother someone else?" Merlin grumbled under his breath.

"Well, it'd be boring otherwise, wouldn't it?"

Merlin chuckled, and Arthur, gripping his shoulder, said, "You cannot give up yet. You have a lead, and dammit, Merlin, you're _Emrys._ You said that without your magic, you're nothing, but I don't believe it. You're not nothing; you're _you_, and it's _there_! Hidden behind the poison's illusions, the magic's there. It might have been extraordinarily painful, but you wouldn't have been able to reach for it! And magic or no, I believe in you just as you've always believed in me."

With a broad smile spreading across his elfin face, Merlin said cheekily, "Went on a right tangent, there, Arthur. You were the one who initiated this rather bittersweet conversation, and you make it sound like _I__'m _the one that's _completely _given up."

Seeing a mischievous glint in Merlin's eyes and suddenly recognizing a glimmer of power within their profound, stormy depths, Arthur, momentarily stunned, smirked and asked, "What are you talking about, Merlin? _I_ haven't given up hope. Have you?"

Merlin, grinning with enthusiasm and optimism, removed Arthur's hand from his shoulder and placed it into the hand that also held the stone, which was surging with warmth and _alive _with shimmering movement, so that it was held between the two of them in an odd sort of handshake.

"Not in the slightest."

Arthur gasped as with a jolt and shock of power, he felt exactly what Merlin was feeling…his sickness, his pain, his weakness—oh gods, he would never forget the _emptiness _and how _lost _Merlin truly felt without his magic—and above all, he felt the renewed hope of the Emrys, which his Once and Future King, by the simple, powerful act of expressing his belief in him, had instilled back in him…

And a second later, the room exploded into a shower of blue and gold light.

* * *

><p>AN: I'm horrible. After such a long wait...another cliffie? Yup. *evil smirk* I hope that Kay's internal struggles have come across well and that you're starting to see the power of the philosopher's stone. ;)<p>

Thank you again to those who pushed me to update, and thank you all for being so supportive and for your wonderful reviews! :D

Just to let you know: I'll probably be switching off between updating this, which shouldn't be too much longer... and Only Friend, which is nearly over.

Oz out.


	18. Ætfieht

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: Heya, everyone! :D

So before I talk about this chapter, I need to clear something up. Anon has asked me a very valid question that I have neglected to cover in these last few chapters about Arthur's protective amulet and Merlin's cloak. Arthur is indeed still wearing the pendant—I never wrote that anyone took it away from him, so I suppose it must be there still. (In truth, this tiny detail completely slipped by me. :P Oopsies.) Arthur's pendant is designed to protect him from projectiles (arrows, fireballs of a certain strength, and the like) and from throwing spells, in particular. Swords (and whips) can still touch him as can more powerful offensive magic. Merlin's cloak has much of the same abilities, and perhaps even some more power (I never made that clear nor have I really thought about it as of yet), but Merlin did not have his cloak during the major confrontation with Kay (it was ripped off of him when Alvarr pounced him), and it hadn't been returned to him until Kay had that moment of remorse when Merlin was unconscious and had Lot and Arthur healed. Even if he had it on, the wards wouldn't have been enough to stop much of anything that happened to him. Does this help? :D

This is an ODDBALL, let me tell you. It's one of my shortest, but that's only because I wanted to get this up before I left tomorrow for UT (hook 'em horns!). It's jam-packed with a whole manner of magicky things. Very muchmagicky. And very much confusing. Yeah, I apologize if you get lost in the metaphors and explanations. I went to town with the Old English, for sure. :P

Unfortunately, there's little bromance and humor, but there's plenty of suspense and my type of psychological whumping. :P

* * *

><p><em>Morning comes and life moves on<em>

_But when it changed_

_You didn't know where you belonged_

_I'll still catch you when you fall from a past that steals your sleep_

_And scrawl these words upon your wall_

_Remind you to believe_

_Time won't ever steal my soul_

_And we're not broken_

…

_I won't let them break you down_

_And I won't hear the empty sounds_

_I'm hopelessly pretending that I know the answer_

_Angels light the neon fires that burn so cold through your desires_

_And all you are is all I need to know_

(Song: "Notbroken" from the Goo Goo Dolls' 2010 album Something For the Rest of Us)

* * *

><p><em>"Even though we've got a fight ahead of us, we've got one thing that [the enemy] doesn't have...something worth fighting for."<em> –Daniel Radcliffe as Harry Potter in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

* * *

><p><em><strong>Ætfieht<strong>_

It was as though a dam had cracked and burst, allowing the floodwaters to rush and roar with eager vengefulness, with powerful glee, from its entrapment. The magic—it wasn't his magic. It wasn't even the magic of the Earth that he constantly felt pulsing, thrumming around him. It was unlike anything he ever felt before…something ancient, unbound, otherworldly.

Whatever it magic it was, its flowing forth from the stone was no less powerful than the rushing rapids bursting from a dam, but it was no destructive force as it flooded, using the Emrys, who sat with his King in a dome of glimmering, pale blue and gold light, as its channel.

Head titled back, eyes closed, hand burning with the heat of the shimmering colors flickering in its core, with the glow emanating from its black surface, and with the comforting touch of his King, Merlin released a soft sound of relief and allowed it to fill him, gilding and purifying his veins and slowly brushing away the Blackness poisoning them…

The Dark magic struck with the vengeance of a dragon, fiery maw opening wide, displaying hundreds of sharp teeth and a wide mouth threatening to swallow him whole…

As good and exhilarating as the ancient magic felt, as warm as it was, the poison fought back—hard. It snarled viciously, retreated, and then lunged to meet the foreign power again, jerking his body like a puppet and making him grind his teeth against a painful whimper as the two forces crashed together, sending arrows of ice-fire, raging, shooting, zooming through his body.

They either hit his heart or his mind. Every time. They did not miss despite the foreign magic's best attempts to shield him. And upon embedding themselves in their target, a conflagration of pain reaching even into the very marrow of his bones, chiseling, tearing away—damnably, horrifyingly, painstakingly piece by piece—at what remained of Merlin.

His magic, the magic repressed, fading, dying—the willful golden fire, reduced to meager flames…and then embers…

His fire, which was already hard put to stay alight by the drug's first touch, was now steadily going out.

The fight between the two foreign powers—Morgana's blackened green and the stone's silvery pearl—was doing the remnants of _his_ magic no good. It might have been beginning to see its freedom as the _sóþwundor_ stone's power carved the pathway open, but it was too weak to so much as stir...

All it could do was look up at the escape it couldn't make with longing…and regret that the hope that had possessed its—his—Merlin's heart was fading to no more than an echo, a vague glimpse, a foggy memory as his mind was snipped away from his internally scorched, ablaze body.

But with that longing and regret was also uncontrolled terror and animalistic rage.

For, in opening a pathway for escape, it was also opening an entrance into Merlin's last defense for the bit of magic left in him…an entrance through which the Darkness could seep in…

His salvation could just as easily destroy him as it could save him.

Outside of himself, he only barely felt his body crash to the floor, barely aware of his soundless cries of pain or the shouts of the others—what others? He was nowhere, but everywhere. Drifting, slipping away from himself and being further pulled into a hole filled with spitting vipers of Morgana's magic. Trapped, imprisoned, in a _cage…_

Some part of Merlin recoiled in disgust, horror, and blazing _wrath_, and a ribbon of gold reached for him, touched him, _remembered him_. And he, having gone for too long without it, remembered _it_.

_Ætfieht (1), _a voice, resounding with the echoes of the ages, whispered as a… presence that was not of his magic nor Morgana's but of the _stone's _brushed against the barest edge of his conscious. _Ætfieht_, it whispered again._ Ætfieht, __hyse drýcræftes. (2)_

The voice grew slightly louder, stronger, more powerful as something, beyond the battle of foreign magic, stirred within him—_his magic_, rising its head again, with the smallest hint of recognition—and as the voice whispered, _Ætfieht, _he distinguished the voice.

Feminine, soft as the mists of a lake, sweet and compassionate and imbued with an ageless power, a voice of his dreams, a voice he remembered…He felt more connected to his body, which stung and burned and throbbed with the pain of the ice-fire arrows and the continuous crashing of magic against magic. Light against Dark.

The voice became more earnest, more forceful and commanding. _Ætfieht, Emrys. _

His name jolted him fully into consciousness again, where, through silent tears, he saw the blurred dome of blue and gold above him shoot jagged forks of light about the stone room. His back arched against the following wave of poisonous missiles shot him front-to-back, back-to-front through every last centimeter of his body.

_Ætfieht_, _sáwol-brōþor þæs Cyninges! (3)_

The King. _His King._

_ Arthur_.

The black magic shied away, hissing, as the Emrys, lost amongst the sea of magic that did not belong to him, _returned_ and shifted in his cage and as he remembered what it was he fought for. And what it was he'd die for.

Now was not his time to die.

_And I sure as hell am not going to die at _her _hand_, he thought to himself

_I_. Yes, he was an 'I.' It was rather incredible how _amazing_ it felt to realize that oneself is an 'I' and not just a part of the whole, a nameless face amongst men, or a sole blade of grass in a vast meadow of undistinguishable blades of grass. And he wasn't just any 'I.' He was a Merlin. _The _Merlin.

Had he seriously forgotten his name? He felt a giddy chuckle build in his chest. Arthur wouldn't let him live it down…

_Arthur_.

The golden magic flickered from within its cage and vigilantly, valiantly, and furiously watched the pearled white and green-black snarl through its window above.

_Ætfieht, _the Lady's voice said strongly, a note of satisfaction coloring her tone.

Yes, fight. He was Merlin. And he must fight, as he always had. For Arthur. For his King.

All of the suppressed rage, the rage that Merlin had let fester in his heart ever since waking with his magic _gone_—no, not gone, _never _gone, he realized that now—since learning what Morgana planned to do with him, since learning she wanted to rip away his freewill, command his magic, and raze Camelot to the ground with _his _powers, hurting Arthur, Gwen, the Knights and soldiers, Gaius, the staff of the castle, the folk of the Lower Town, the land and livelihoods of all living creature in the process…

_Hell. No._

Merlin's gold grew brighter, throwing leeches of rotted magic from itself and letting them shriek as they, now without their sustenance, writhed and disappeared like wisps of smoke. And as the pressure within Merlin built, the dome of pale light above became vibrant in the growing power.

Ocean-blue eyes, which were quite a few shades different from the royal indigo-blue in the web surrounding Merlin and his King, consumed his tunnel of vision, and he heard, overlapping with the Lady's constant encouragement of _Ætfieht, _in the prattish voice of Arthur Pendragon yelling, "Dammit, Merlin! _Fight it!_"

It was the last push he needed, and Merlin, with the ghost of a lopsided smirk lighting his tear-streaked cheeks, was only too happy to oblige and, for once, obey his King's order without a fuss.

His magic, soaring with the uninhibited joy of a young hawk's (4) first flight and with no less anger than Kilgharrah had possessed when he had finally been released after two decades, burst from the confines of its cage, and readily, it, pure gold once more and webbed with its bond's royal blue, intertwined and linked its power with that of the stone's.

He was Emrys, and this, Merlin Emrys _tsk_'d amusedly to himself, was simply unacceptable.

Together, Morgana's evil enchantment stood absolutely no chance, and with heat rising to his cobalt-grey eyes and turning them molten gold, Merlin felt it flood through every last pore, every last hair follicle, every last fiber of his self. As it went, it banished the blackness that stained his veins like the sun did a night's starry sky, and following the poison's rottenness, the pain and nausea fled and left Merlin feeling rejuvenated, energized, and absolutely _buzzing _with raw power.

Arthur's eyes, shining with unshed tears of relief, smiled above him, and after releasing a rather hysterical sounding bark of laughter, Merlin, blissful in light of his renewed spirit, returned the smile, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath as his magic—his beautiful, glorious, wonderful, warm magic—and the philosopher stone's power helped his destroy the very last piece of the enchantment binding him.

It was done.

And he was—he was was _free_.

Before Merlin could release a choking sob of happiness or share that happiness with Arthur and the Knights or could so much as _wrap his mind around_ the joyous fact that he was no longer prisoner and Morgana had absolutely no hold on him, the strangest thing happened.

Which is certainly saying something because in the course of Merlin's lifetime, he had seen plenty of _strange _things.

The dome of light above retracted and then burst outward into a shower of sparkling light, and simultaneously, the stone's magic untangled itself from his, collected into one mass, and flowed down his arm and back into the stone, which was somehow still grasped between Arthur's hand and his own…

The moment the ancient magic began to leave him, static filled the air, and inexplicably, Merlin's eyes rolled into the back of his head.

And just before he lost consciousness, he felt Arthur hit the floor beside him and heard, just at the edge of his hearing, the musical humming and indecipherable chanting of the Faeries of Avalon.

~…~

When Merlin opened his eyes to see a cloudless blue sky and peacefully rustling tree branches and when he realized that he was sleeping on a soft bed of grass that tickled and poked at the back of his neck, he sighed contentedly and almost turned over to fall back asleep.

Almost.

Because in that same moment, disorientation crashed upon him, and with a heaving chest and racing heart, he sat bolt upright and released a strangled cuss for good measure.

_How in the _bloody _world did he end up _here?

But then there was the question of _where_ here was_…_

Whirling his head around, he recognized the place within seconds, and scooting backwards a meter in his surprise, he also realized that it wasn't the _same_.

He was sitting on the banks of the lake of Avalon—of course he'd recognize the lake's mists, its magic, its essence _anywhere_—but he was sitting on the banks of the _opposite shore_.

The shore that belonged not to mortal men.

"Oh, damn," Merlin muttered to himself.

Even to his own ears, his curse seemed far too calm for the panic and confusion tumbling inside him, and somehow, _that—_in addition and in comparison to and _on top of_ _everything else _that happened—he considered that to be immensely amusing.

Thus resulting in an explosion of hysteria that echoed eerily across the still waters.

And that awoke the one he brought with him.

The familiar groan beside him made Merlin nearly jump out of his skin, and he turned to see Arthur Pendragon blinking open his blurry eyes, which, Merlin was discomforted and interested to notice, did not mirror the blue of the sky as they usually did.

They were the deep, royal blue-purple of his _aura_.

The King's brow furrowed for a moment as the eyelids fluttered rapidly, and Merlin was just about to lean over him and ask if he was okay when the blonde royal, eyes widening, gave a startled cry and jerked to a sitting position.

"Arthur!" Merlin shouted as he wildly spun around in a panic.

His King stared at him sightlessly for a few seconds before blinking and scowling, "_Mer_lin, what the hell did you do?"

Of _course_ Arthur would accuse _him_ of landing them in their current predicament.

"_Me_?" Merlin protested, withdrawing his hand, which was outreached in a gesture meant to placate Arthur, and placing it on his own chest. "Just because I have magic, Arthur, it doesn't make it fair to assume that _I _did _anything—_"

Arthur groaned and, after dramatically throwing up his hands, rolled his eyes. "Your eyes are still bloody _gold, _Merlin!"

The warlock frowned in confusion and decided it probably wouldn't be a good idea to mention to the King, who looked edgy, that his eyes were also of a different color. "What does that matter? _I _didn't do anything! It must've been the—the stone…" he trailed off.

It just occurred to him, for the second time, that he _could _do something with his magic at all.

_He was free_.

It seemed that his King came to the same realization, and when a broad smile started spreading across his face and eyes started shining with pride, awe, and the inexplicable brotherly love that the bonded pair shared, Arthur exclaimed, "Merlin, you did it!"

Without a word, the warlock held open his palm and summoning his magic—it felt like being born anew—a single flame danced across his palm.

"Without you, I wouldn't be, _brōþor,_" Merlin murmured after a moment of gleeful staring at the flame. His voice cracked with the strength of his affection for the man sitting across from him, and the golden eyes filmed with tears of exultation. "You called me back."

Arthur was not at all surprised by his use of the Old tongue (nor was he of the word he used), and his deep indigo eyes appeared to mirror Merlin's as he said gently, "And you came, as I knew you would."

"I will follow you anywhere (5)." An impish grin lighted Merlin's face, and with playfulness sweeping away the intense sincerity and loyalty in his changeable eyes, he teased, "Just don't expect me to obey your orders _that _easily all the time. We wouldn't want you to get lazy now, would we?"

The King smirked and crossed his arms, "Wouldn't _dream _of it, Merlin."

Releasing the magic and feeling the happy tears—_they were alive_…and Arthur, his brilliant, shining King who mocked him and teased him and loved him all the same, nor his magic was going to be taken from him, both of which were _so close _to being lost to him forever—finally slipping from his eyes, Merlin laughed and went to embrace Arthur, who was watching his friend and grinning, to share his relief, success, and joy…

Only to topple right through his friend's body as though he were air and crash ungracefully to the ground with an _oomph_.

Spinning around, Arthur gaped at him in a mixture of hilarity and confusion, and after the most painful looking expression passed across his face—it seemed that Arthur's laughter and shock were fighting for dominance (the bewilderment won out)—he experimentally patted his chest and arms and found himself solid.

"That—that was weird," Arthur mumbled in a dazed tone. "Not that this whole situation isn't weird, _at all_," he added sarcastically under his breath as he looked around.

With a spreading lopsided smile, Merlin scrambled upward, and he explained, "No, no, it explains everything!"

"_What?_" Arthur asked, looking at him as though he had gone insane.

"We're not _really_ here," Merlin explained excitedly with an inquisitive gleam in his golden eyes. "How fascinating…"

"Care to explain to me—?"

"This isn't real," the bizarre warlock said. "We're probably unconscious back in the cells from the magical strain on our minds and are now sharing a dream. The stone must've linked our minds to show us this."

Merlin couldn't help but be proud that Arthur accepted the strange truth of the situation without more than a sharp exhale of exasperation. In fact, it touched him that Arthur didn't show any more unease and didn't doubt or try his logic.

Brother, indeed, to put up with all this bizarreness that was his life.

"But—but _why_ take us to the Lake of Avalon?" Arthur asked, peering out over the water, which had an unnatural, ethereal sheen to it, making it quite obvious that it did not belong to their world.

"That, I haven't the slightest clu—"

A gentle tug in his chest cut him off, and Merlin felt his eyes being drawn to a specific spot on the lake, where mist was swirling lazily and beginning to pile up into a distinct form…

"What in the world—?" Arthur, whose gaze had followed his, breathed in awe.

But Merlin barely heard, and he sat frozen, stunned and mystified, as bare feet slipped out from underneath the pearly hem of mist and as fingers, dark, flowing hair, and soft facial features—her nose, perfect lips, and beautiful dark eyes—morphed.

The Lady, a circlet of silver dewdrops adorning her brow, walked across the surface of the lake towards the two men and smiled shyly at them.

Merlin, without realizing it, stood to his feet, and with almost painful slowness and with his heart rising into his throat, he started to walk to meet her at the edge of the waves. After a moment of uncertain hesitation, Arthur followed him.

And when he reached her—it almost seemed too good to be true…that she had summoned him and Arthur thither—he compulsively lifted his trembling fingers to brush her pale, glowing cheeks, but he hesitated, wondering for a brief moment if he wanted to put himself through the pain of realizing he couldn't touch her….

At his falter, the Lady took his hand into her own and tenderly brought it to her cheek for him.

A shock of her power traveled through him at the touch, but that didn't concern him. She was there. She was _real_.

And after a heartbeat of silence…

"_Freya_," he choked out, cradling her face.

Her voice, the voice of his dreams and the very same voice that urged him to fight in the tongue of the Old Religion, made shivers run up his spin and tears form in his eyes. "Merlin," she whispered compassionately.

Not at all self-conscious under Arthur's wide-eyed stare on them, he grinned and brushed his lips against hers in a chaste kiss. "Thank you," he said, pressing his forehead against her own.

The Lady gently lifted his eyes to hers. "No, don't thank me, Merlin. It is the _sóþwundor _which allowed me to take the chance to see you again," Freya said, brushing at a tear that had leaked from his bright still-golden eyes at the memory of the last time she said words similar to these. "And which had the power to help you recover the magic you thought lost."

"But you were the one who guided it," Merlin disagreed with gratitude shining from his eyes. "You and Arthur."

At the mention of Arthur, Freya's gaze drifted to the King, who had come up to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Merlin, with a dazzling smile. "Greetings, my King," she said, inclining her head in respect.

And to Merlin's utter surprise, with his royal blue eyes shining with an unreadable emotion, King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot lowered himself to his knees at her feet and said in a quiet voice, "I am so sorry."

The words were so few, but the strength of the message behind them was enough to send Merlin reeling.

No more were needed, and Freya smiling, bent to Arthur, took his hands, and raised him to stand again.

"Do not kneel before me, of all people, Arthur Pendragon," Freya said kindly. "There is nothing to forgive. I was a victim of Fate, and while Merlin reminded me of love, you were the one who physically freed me from my curse. Together, you brought me to realize my destiny…my part in this world as the Lady of Avalon, and even though my fealty lied with you, my King, and with you, my warlock, from the beginning, the moment you took the sword Excalibur, which I had safeguarded here in the Lake, from the stone, you gained all of Avalon's loyalty."

Overwhelmed, both Merlin and Arthur exchanged a look before Arthur turned back and said, "Thank you, my Lady."

"Freya, Arthur," she corrected amusedly.

Arthur, for some reason, smirked knowingly at _Merlin_ (so what Freya shared his dislike for proper titles? That was hardly _his _doing. Indeed, her modesty made him love her all the more), and he tried again, "Thank you, Freya. For your forgiveness, loyalty…and for your assistance in this war."

"Camelot'd be lost without you," Merlin agreed, pressing her hand. "Twice over."

"This time," she admitted, "it was not my doing so much as the spirits of Ladies past."

Before either Merlin or Arthur could ask, Freya was explaining, "The _sóþwundor _stone, as you know, is an ancient instrument of power, designed to store seemingly endless amounts of energy."

"Yes," Merlin said slowly.

"But you also know," she said, "that there was something more of its power that you could not understand. Few know its mysteries, and even the dragons, the wisest creatures of the Old Religion, beside the various Faery peoples of Avalon, couldn't explain it."

"And it was this power that helped me overcome Morgana's enchantment?"

"That is the trick, Merlin. The power is nothing…not without _you_."

"…Me?" Merlin repeated.

"D'you know why these stones are so rare? Not only does it take an inconceivable amount of magic to form them, but…they are also blessed by the collective spirit—the very magical _essence_—of Avalon, which a Lady must make great sacrifice to summon and which a Lady can only do during the time that the dragon-comet (6), a mark of _your _coming, Emrys and King Once and Future,passes in the sky. It has only passed thrice in Avalon's skies in all of time—once when your Prophecy was first created, once when you two met for the first time, and once when Arthur was crowned and magic was made free again in Camelot."

After remembering what Arthur told him about how he had gotten the stone—he had it _before _having ever met the warlock—Merlin realized with a sudden gasp, "We hold the oldest one."

"Yes. The others have been kept safe here in Avalon, but the one you have, Merlin, is one that had been lost in the mortal world for centuries. And its time of creation makes it the most powerful."

"Why create them at all?" Merlin asked.

Freya brushed at the fringe of raven hair at Merlin's forehead and said with a laugh, "That is a mystery to all but the Seer who first Saw and the Lady who first deigned to command the power of the dragon-comet. But, I do know that if she hadn't… Destiny would have shattered before our very eyes, and you both…I shudder to think."

It was then that both Merlin and Arthur felt an ominous presence stir in the air at the thought of how close they had been to destroying themselves and everything they held dear and just how close loomed the _Ece Wælclarnþn (7)__._

Freya embraced Merlin fiercely and squeezed one of Arthur's hands simultaneously. "Thank gods for the ancients' foresight and knowledge of just how powerful you and your bond with our King would be. All might have been lost, otherwise, had the stone never been blessed."

"And this blessing…did what exactly?" Arthur asked confusedly.

"The true magic of the stone is in the blessing, which is linked directly to you and your bond… As great is it may seem, it is a small, beautiful magic in that it reminds one that there is no magic more powerful than that of hope."

Merlin inhaled sharply in realization, and with the flesh-memory of the stone warm in his pocket when Arthur defended him, when Arthur told him there was nothing he wouldn't do to get his magic back, and when he vowed to himself that he wouldn't fall prey to Morgana, he whispered, "And when it recognized us..."

Freya smiled. "Yes. The strength of your shared hope was enough for the blessing to activate and remind you that you could fight it and _win_. And once the hope awakened your hurting, dormant magic, _you _directed the energy from within the stone, bound it with yours, and banished the Dark poison devouring your spirit.

"Your magic is so unique, Merlin. The spirit of Emrys cannot be destroyed, not even by its polar opposite. Remember that always."

_Beþence ealneg_, the Lady said in the language of power, _þín __bréostsefan gyldenes _(8).

"Remember always your heart of gold," Arthur translated, his voice reverberating with a potency unique to _him_, the Once and Future King.

Freya, dark eyes soft with compassion, looked across the misty water at something and suddenly sighed, "I have stayed too long. The storm is coming."

Merlin felt a burst of regret for the short length of their reunion, but when her dark eyes, now webbed with the gold of magic, flickered back to them, the warlock, recognizing the great sorceress within, knew without a doubt that he and Arthur were needed.

It was time, and determination hardened both the faces of Emrys and the King.

Morgana Pendragon would rue the day she ever _dared_ try to command him.

"Be prepared," Freya said. "For danger awaits you already."

Merlin, subduing the magic rolling impatiently and furiously under his skin, kissed her lingeringly in farewell, and after pulling away, he asked with passionate eyes, "Will I see you again?"

Freya, the Lady of the Lake, grinned brightly. "I might be bound to the Lake of Avalon, but I am also bound to Albion and to the Emrys and Once and Future King; I daresay that after your victory this day, I will see you both again."

Merlin smiled at her promise and faith, and after the pair of them shared a warm look of unspoken love, the warlock nodded once and backed away from the water with Arthur.

Her pearly gown skimmed the surface of the water without a ripple, and after she turned back to say aloud, "_Ætfieht for fréode, (9)_" she raised her pale hands to the veils of mist.

And so parted them for their safe passage back.

The storm was nearing, and for peace, for friendship, for love, for freedom, they would fight.

Merlin's hands clenched into fists at his side, and his eyes blazed with magic.

~…~

The last candle of the circular ring lit and blazed with a dark emerald green fire that reflected the essence of her own magic, and taking the chance to smirk, the witch, without breaking her concentration or releasing her tenacious hold on the Dark magic, which was more slippery than an eel, spun around to briefly admire her handiwork before focusing her pale green eyes upon the glossy stone pedestal in the center of the ring and the bejeweled, curved dagger laying ready.

While her army of creatures—ranging from Crocotta to wyvern—sorcerers, and men began making preparations for the siege, her own preparations for the _Ece Wælclarnþn _were nearly complete.

For that pest's magic to be Bound to her own, it wasn't a matter of how powerful her magic was. Well, that wasn't _entirely _true. Her powers _were _a factor, but, in the end, it wasn't her magic that would prevent her soul from being lost during the Binding.

She must not waver—not even the _slightest_—in her purpose. If she lost sight for the briefest moment and if her own drive wasn't incorruptible and unbendable, it was all over, and she was as good as dead.

Morgana wasn't one to let that happen. She was daughter of Uther and an avid follower of the Old Religion, and thus, her willpower was unmatched in this.

She _would _take Camelot as her own.

It was time for the tables to turn, and it was _so close_, Morgana Pendragon could almost taste the sweetness of victory. She could almost see the wench Guinevere's trembling, a bloody Arthur kneeling before her, and Merlin…

What would happen to _him_ made chills of blood-lusty pleasure race down her spine.

But…there was one final thing.

Allowing her rage, her ambition, her dreams, her hatred, her _envy_ to fill her, she paced before the podium, and without trembling, she took the ancient dagger in her hand, sliced open one of her palms as blood sacrifice, and focused first on the city that would soon be hers and incanted in a deep, rich tone, "_Álíefe__ sēonde __mec __þone sidweg_ (10)."

Under normal circumstances, the spell was a simple enough scrying spell with a pool or mirror, but when one uttered it with the intent of using it as a stepping-stone to higher, more dangerous Dark magic, a magic practitioner needed no such reflective surface to see Beyond them.

The eerily glowing cavern disappeared as her vision (which raced with the spell through the forests) blurred with leafy greens and earthy browns, and after jolting to a stop, she, a ghost in all but name, floated above and looked down upon Camelot.

It was rather pathetic how the entire city teemed in their vain attempts to summon a force to stop her. They—all the rushing, racing, practicing, resting, fetching, serving, and worrying people, be they Knights, nobles, soldiers, or simple folk—were rather like the ants in their anthill.

Cute, almost, it seemed, that they—with their panicked, frenzied motions and oh-so heroic and _noble_ notions—thought that they could stop her, and after zooming her focus through the windows of the council chambers, where she saw the imposter-Queen—loathing rushed from the darkest pit of her heart, and she felt no sympathy when she saw the bruise-like marks underneath Gwen's eyes from stress and fatigue—Gaius, an elder Druid—_traitor_, her mind hissed—and Leon conversing…well, more _arguing_, her confidence soared ever higher.

Had she been in her body, she would have smirked and released a cruel laugh. _These _were the best Camelot had to offer? _These _fools were the only people standing in the way of her throne?

No. The best that Camelot had to offer were locked away in the dungeons of Livandir, magic-less, defenseless, and unable to so much as lift a finger against her...

And with her spies monitoring Guinevere's every move, the council's every decision, and the Druids' every magical battle strategy, what chance did they _really_ stand?

She would take ever so much pleasure in crushing their anthill with her boot.

Satisfied and ever more certain of her triumph, Morgana retreated and found herself back in the room of shifting emerald light. There was spellbinding consistency and uniform pattern to their dance, and one flame moved right-to-left while the one next to it flowed left-to-right and so on—one flame always touched another. Over and over again, back and forth, like a swinging pendulum….

The Dark magic began to simmer within her and hover expectantly in the very air above her…

Exhilaration at the power, the promise of her revenge—damn that bastard _Merlin, _her sworn enemy, damn her brother, the King that was so disgustingly _adored_, damn that imposter on her throne, the girl who once fixed her hair with feather-light touches and the girl who once laundered her clothes…_Damn them all_—flooded her, and she, throwing back her head of matted black hair, took the knife to her uninjured palm to make another cut and pressed her first bleeding palm onto the pedestal.

In repeating the incantation, she focused this time not on Camelot but on _them_, and felt vindictive glee at the sight of Merlin sitting with his back against a cell wall, rolling some unknown object over and over again in his long fingers, and staring sightlessly with his cerulean blue eyes devoid of life and of that light of compassion, loyalty, and determination that she couldn't help but admire.

It almost made her falter to see him, so willful and true to himself, _broken_. That was the intent, of course, but actually seeing it…

And there was Arthur, watching his Court Sorcerer with a look so—ugh, it was sickening, really, to see that depth of concern in the King's sapphire blue eyes.

It was there in those eyes she saw a hint of waning hope…

It was just too good to be true, but when Morgana chided herself for being so foolish, it came to her that it was indeed true.

Merlin Emrys was dying, and Arthur Pendragon could do absolutely nothing to stop it.

This time, when Morgana returned to her consciousness to her body, she found herself laughing wickedly and eagerly pressed her other bleeding palm onto the black stone in front of her.

Her eyes rolled briefly into the back of her head as the Dark magic she had summoned dove to the glossy pedestal, which would, once she had completed her work here, serve as the altar of Merlin's Binding...and of his doom.

There was no sense of time. There was no weariness, no pain, no hunger or thirst. So, not knowing whether seconds or hours passed nor really _caring, _she stood, bled all over the stones, and waited.

The green candlelight sped in its wild dance, going faster and faster until the point where it appeared as though Morgana were sitting in the center of a solid ring of spinning fire, and once this happened, the witch followed some unknown prompt and removed her palms from the pedestal of stone.

Two bloody handprints stained its surface. Her blood-sacrifice. The first to prove her devotion and dedication to her causes—the magic cared not which cause that might be but that her will was strong enough to endure _anything _and that there was nothing she wouldn't risk for her cause. The other was to placate the Dark magic that she could not command and that could easily turn on _her_ by ensuring that the one being Bound was prepared and ready for the last stage of the ceremony.

Ignoring the stinging in her palms and gathering her strength, Morgana, eyes glowing with a dark, demonic red-gold color, gripped the dagger with both hands, and as the very limits of her animosity towards them all climaxed within her, she released a wordless cry and stabbed the dagger straight into the stone, where it buried itself to the hilt.

And there it would stay until Merlin was brought to her.

With a devil's toothy grin, she snarled "Farewell, _Emrys."_

The spinning circle of green candlelight lifted from their wicks, and after the flames threaded themselves into a thin ribbon, they weaved their way to the dagger's hilt, which was made of a jewel meant to contain the magical, Dark fire…

The ribbon trickled into the dagger's hilt, and Morgana, silently celebrating and hardly containing her smugness, watched with an almost lusty greed…

The last of it was just about to be consumed by the hilt when—

She barely had time to frown in confusion before a vicious wrenching in her chest made her shriek like a banshee (little did she know that this was only a fraction of what Merlin had felt when the poison had been administered to him) and crumple to her knees…

The air crackled with some foreign, uncontained electricity like that of lightning, and the hilt of the dagger, unable to hold the emerald fire, cracked, releasing the emerald fire…

To Morgana's utter horror, the altar-stone began to vibrate with a green light tinged with gold, then white, and then blue…growing brighter and brighter…

The sudden clap of thunder that crashed upon her made her yelp, squeeze her eyes shut, and cover her ringing ears, and when she looked up with bewildered pale green eyes, she saw that it hadn't been thunder at all.

Her blood ran cold, and breath caught in her throat.

A jagged crevice had split the stone directly in half, and the altar itself had regurgitated the very dagger—the blade was no longer attached to its hilt—she had stabbed into it with the aid of the Darkest magic known to the mortal world…

Her spell was broken.

_He did this_.

Her resulting scream of rage, amplified by her uncontrollable magic, was heard even in streets of Camelot and even by the Queen, who leaned on a windowsill and looked out upon the city she loved and toward the night sky for a single hint of good fortune.

And that scream, as terrifying and bloodcurdling as it was, made a fleeting smile of hope twitch at Gwen's lips, for, soft as the embrace of a sister, a whisper of power, promise, hope, and faith, a whisper in a voice she recognized from a distant dream, followed…

_Ætfieht._

The witch's scream even carried to Kay, who lifted his head from his hands and felt the confusion in his soul fracture.

And it was clear what he must do—for he had finally answered the question that had been plaguing him these long, dark hours filled with madness, monsters of fear, and guilt. Clearheaded, his hand tightened on his sword hilt, and he lowered his glistening teal eyes and mouthed a silent vow...

_Ætfieht._

* * *

><p>(1) Translation: Fight.<p>

(2) Translation: Fight, son of magic.

(3) Translation: Fight, soul-brother of the King.

(4) It amuses me like no other to put references from my other fics into my current ones. :P Dunno why that is…

(5) Another reference to one of my ficlets in Rabbits and Bathroom Breaks.

(6) I seem to be having fun with the dragon-comet lately. Felt like a good thing to use. I hardly ever see it around here. ;)

(7) Translation: Fatal Eternal bond

(8) Translation: Remember always your golden mind/heart. (Yay! Title connection!)

(9) Translation: Fight for peace/friendship.

(10) Translation: Allow me to see the road that stretches far.

AN: That was the very first time I've written Freya (gosh, that explanation of hers could have been a hell of a lot better, but I have no idea how to do so...forgive me for that section of gobbledygook... I tried to balance the power of the stone with Merlin's magic so it didn't appear as though Merlin completely relied upon the stone's power [that'd be such a bummer if I did it that way] to break through the enchantments) and a completely shady, freaky Dark magic ritual. Hope I did it right. :P

The action and final battles are hovering on the horizon, guys...

**_IMPORTANT!_ **But, as I mentioned above, I'm moving into my dorm _tomorrow_ and classes start Wednesday, so I regret to say I haven't the slightest idea when I'll be able to write (I'll probably end up updating my drabble/ficlet fic more than this). Rest assured: this fic will **NEVER** be abandoned (it's my baby, after all); I just ask that you be patient with me when updates are slow and when I don't respond to your pms/reviews as quickly as I usually do.

Thank you so much, everyone! Love and hugs to you!

Oz out.


	19. The Little Things

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: Again. No excuse. :) Forgive me? I don't really deserve it, especially with this chapter, which is more a filler than anything else. I have three tests coming up *is nervous* so I'd say I'm glad to have gotten this up at all this weekend.

Quite a few POV changes, here. We've got a Gwaine (hooray for some humor!), Arthur (full of angsty bromance), Lot (more bromance-observing and _small _plot-movement), _and _Merlin (_small _bromance and plot-movement) POV...

Enjoy:

* * *

><p><strong>The Little Things<strong>

When it came to Merlin, Gwaine was becoming accustomed to majorly _bizarre _things.

Because that was Merlin's way. He was a bizarre person, full of strange quirks and odd wisdom that continuously deepened and darkened his playful eyes and transformed his usually insolent, cheeky grin. Gwaine had accepted that when he had first met Merlin.

Then magic came in. Of course, upon awakening from the Gvarath's attack and learning that his first friend from _Camelot _had _magic_, Gwaine had shaken his head and _laughed_.

Because only _Merlin_ would be brave enough, idiotic enough, and eccentric enough to stay in the physical epicenter of anti-magic sentiment and hide his magic throughout it all. And as the Prince's manservant to boot!

_Then, _to add oddity upon oddity, he learned that not only was Merlin a warlock, but he—the clumsy, smiling, laughing, teasing, thin, couldn't-hold-his-liquor-if-his-life-depended-on-it _rod_ of a servant—was also the _bloody most powerful_ warlock. One with a forever-famous and long-since-Prophesized Druid name that signified his supposed destiny as the Once and Future King's guide, advisor, and protector.

Sure it had been a bit of a shock—_everyone _was shocked by the modesty of the raven-haired man and by the frankly _baffling _selflessness and loyalty he possessed, but hey, it was _Merlin_, his best mate.

That—the acceptance that Merlin _was _weird and that weird things happened around him—was explanation enough for Gwaine. And was explanation enough for all the weirdness going around in Camelot… in his oh-so-humble opinion, that is.

But then again, the Pendragons in general had something to do with attracting all the monsters and revenge-drive witch sisters as well...

Story for a different time. _That_ was a circle so convoluted Gwaine couldn't stand thinking about it for long without getting a migraine.

The _point_ was that the Knight was used to peculiar, magical occurrences. Even more so after the ban on magic was released and after Merlin was free to do use his magic in the open to relight candles and to help lift things thrice his weight and to pull tiny pranks on those who laughed at his clumsiness by tripping _them_ and to try to contain pesky sprites and to summon dragons and to randomly experiment with spells and to fight mongrels of magical beasts….

It had come to the point where Gwaine thought no amount of weirdness could surprise him anymore.

He was wrong.

And the next time he tried to convince himself again—he would take care to remember: there's _no _boundary, _no _limit to the amount of bizarreness in the world.

In retrospect, he realized how _stupid _he was to think that he couldn't be surprised by all this craziness anymore.

And how stupid he was to leave Merlin _alone _with an extraordinarily powerful rock—yes, _rock…never_ again would he underestimate one—that he (as well as his dragon friend) knew little to nothing about.

Unfortunately, it wasn't until he awoke in the dungeon cell to see a dome of pale blue and gold light, originating from the black stone that was held between Arthur and Merlin's hands, slowly falling to surround the Court Sorcerer and the King in an impenetrable bubble of magic that he fully realized the full extent of his stupidity.

"What the hell's happening?" Lot yelped as he jerked awake and stared in shock at the spreading dome and at the two men trapped inside.

Gwaine, his hand reflexively reaching for his nonexistent sword, was too stunned and concerned to do more than shake his head wordlessly at Lot before lurching forward toward the dome, but Lancelot stopped his comrade-in-arms by grabbing his upper arm and whispering in excitement, "No, wait, Gwaine! Look! They're grinning."

And indeed they were grinning. Arthur—he was grinning in that _way _he grinned whenever he and Merlin shared one of their poignant, unique, brotherly "moments" (as the Knights had recently begun to call them out of their earshot). And there was more. Hope. And something that looked like wicked triumph.

Yeah, it was then that Gwaine knew that Morgana—she was going to get _hell_.

Merlin, too, looked _alight _with something beyond the pale glow of the magic….healthy, bright, _alive_. There was no sign of the dark loss and despair lingering in his eyes and no sign of the monstrous corruption that had ringed his irises. No, it was _all _Merlin again, and with the happy tears beading in his eyes and with the mad grin that was _still _widening across his face, it was then that Gwaine knew everything would be alright.

But that conclusion—and the relief stemming from said conclusion—didn't necessarily help with the fact that his two friends were sitting in the middle of a bloody magical shining dome, which shimmered ethereally and _pulsed_, in the middle of the enemy's bloody dungeon.

All Gwaine could wonder with a mixture of interest, shock, relief, and awe was what the _hell _was exactly happening to his two friends.

At least he and the Knights were fairing better than Lot, whose chest was heaving still and who, in his panic, looked to Gwaine much like a cornered rabbit.

"Dammit," Percival muttered beside him. The large man turned his gaze worriedly do the door, which had no barred window but hardly fit well in the threshold. Light must have been seeping into the corridor. "I hope the guards don't disrupt this."

"They're probably too far gone to even pass a second thought about it," Lancelot said with a strange mixture of grimness and excitement in his voice, "If their orders were to guard, I can't imagine them—"

"If what I think is happening _is _happening," Gwaine interrupted with a sly grin, "it's not going to matter much anyway, is it?"

When their smiles began to mirror Gwaine's, Lot gave them all looks that implied that he thought that they were _beyond _insane, and he, gesturing between the dome and the Knights asked with a shaky laugh, "Does this happen often?"

The Camelotians looked at each other before Percival said thoughtfully, "Well, it depends on what you mean by 'this.' This specifically, no. Situations _like _this—" he shrugged "—often enough."

Lancelot, turning his gaze to the pair in the dome, nodded and muttered, "All we can do now is wait it ou—_Merlin_!"

At the sudden switch of tone and the horrified gasp, Gwaine swung his head around so fast that his neck cracked, and his heart sunk to his feet when he saw that the warlock's blinding grin had twisted into a pained grimace. And the gold and blue colors, growing more vibrant before fading back to pale once again, of the dome grew wild as they traveled and raced after each other across the magical shield. Blackened green crawled in thick webbed lines…looking far too much like poisoned veins for Gwaine's liking.

Without thinking and blinded by worry, Gwaine yelled out and lunged forward once again.

The moment his hand touched the magic, it felt as though he had run his hands under a running spout of liquid lightning, and with a strangled hiss, the Knight jerked away, cradling his hand and cursing under his breath.

"Gwaine!" Percival exclaimed. "You alright?"

Growling incoherently, his desperate worry and fear for his friends made him snap wrathfully, "Who cares?" He shook out his hand, which tingled with the familiar feeling of Merlin's magic…and the hellish bite of the poison, which was far more pronounced than Merlin's own, Gwaine realized.

When a renewed panic and horror burned into his gut, he snarled, "_It's fighting back_. We have to _do _something! I—I don't know—"

He couldn't finish the sentence. How could he? Before his magic had been revealed, the man went into battle with no armor (he still did that, anyhow), and despite the lack of skill with a sword, Merlin always seemed… so untouchable. And after his magic had been revealed, 'untouchable' didn't even _begin _to cover it.

Merlin Emrys—how could Gwaine even _think _that he didn't know whether their Court Sorcerer would survive this battle? Guilt stung at his chest for doubting Merlin, but with the horrifying feeling of the Dark magic washing over him…

He was amazed Merlin had hung on for as long as he had, and unbidden tears pricked in his brown eyes.

Surprisingly, it was Lot who, with his practicality, consoled Gwaine. "Gwaine," he said, giving the Knight a look that looked almost _respectful_—it occurred to Gwaine that _that _was certainly unusual…

Gwaine flicked his hair in his agitation and banished the fleeting surprise and amusement, and he nearly released an overwhelmed, impatient, and strained groan. His mate was _in trouble_, and even the most impulsive and rash of the men sitting there knew that there was _nothing _he could do.

"I believe," Lot was saying slowly, "this is _his _battle. Even his magic won't let you interfere."

As if to emphasize the king's point, the dome, no longer pale and transparent and still flickering with quarrelling colors that were now steadily becoming _more vivid_ and rich, flared with a pearly white light, and from within, they heard Arthur yelling, "Dammit, Merlin! Fight it!"

And with that, the rich gold, blue, and white flashed so intensely that the men had to avert their eyes, and warmth—yes, this _was _Merlin's magic…intact, incorruptible, unadulterated—flooded the damp, chilly cell.

Time seemed to hang on a single thread for an eternal second before the thread was snipped, and the men could have sworn they heard the encouraging, musical murmur of a Lady's voice as the light dissipated, exposing Arthur and Merlin, both of whom were inexplicably unconscious and lying as still as stone.

Percival was the first to move, and hesitantly, he crawled forward to the King and warlock. "They're breathing!" he sighed in relief.

Immediately, the others scrambled over, and Lancelot got ahold of Merlin and Arthur's shoulders before Gwaine could.

"Arthur? Merlin?" the other Knight called, shaking their shoulders.

Gwaine, restless in his anxiousness, furrowed his brow and frowned in worry when Merlin, his eyelids shifting with the furious movement of the orbs underneath, did not respond, but when Arthur grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Go away, idiot," Gwaine couldn't help but release a bit of a hysterical giggle.

"Well, at least we know _he's _alright," Lancelot joked wryly as he jostled Merlin's shoulder with more force than he had previously.

From the corner of his eye, Gwaine saw Lot roll his eyes in amusement, but the jade eyes softened considerably when he saw that Lancelot's efforts to get a response out of the young warlock were made in vain.

"What d'you suppose—?" Lot whispered.

"Couldn't you _feel _it? Whatever he did," Percival said, "it took a lot of power to do it."

A shrill shriek suddenly pierced the recesses of Gwaine's mind, and with a yelp that was quickly echoed by his companions, one of the Knight's dirty hands flew to his head.

Before Lot could start cussing in confusion, before any of the Knights could make the connection that they had heard an amplified scream similar to this one during a different battle, and even before Gwaine had the chance to shake away the remnants from the intrusion in his mind and open his eyes, a quiet snicker broke through the silence.

He'd recognize that laughter—in any form—anywhere.

As Merlin's snickering became hearty, uncontrollable chuckling, which sounded more than a little hysterical and rather diabolical, the Knight's eyes flew open, and he saw Merlin still lying on his back.

"Oh, dear, she's not too happy, is she?" Merlin sniggered amusedly to the ceiling.

"_She?_"

"But she can wait," Merlin mumbled to himself smugly.

The Knights, unsure of how to respond and chilled to the bone (they knew who Merlin _must _have been referring to), just stared at Merlin, whose eerie chuckling morphed yet again into joyous, happy laughter as his eyes blazed gold—_his _gold—and summoned a light to illuminate their grey cell.

"It's back," Gwaine breathed with gratitude and glee clearly heard in his tone.

Merlin turned his head to the men sitting side-by-side along the wall, and the skin around his eyes crinkled with the force of his smile.

"I'm back," his friend agreed with a strong edge in his voice.

Somehow, that unconscious correction sent chills running down the Knight's spine and simultaneously had warmth flooding his heart.

Rolling quickly over, Merlin, his stormy blue eyes animated and dancing, quickly faced Arthur again and flicked his head playfully.

Lot's eyes widened comically at the disrespectful antics—he was obviously still a little stunned at how the King and warlock's relationship worked—of Merlin, who was continuously not at all like how the rumors and stereotypes made him out to be (or so it seemed in Lot's eyes, Gwaine _assumed_), but Gwaine grinned broadly as Arthur, exasperated and irritable at the warlock's unusual methods to get him awake, blinked open his sapphire eyes.

"What the _hell, _Merlin?" the King mumbled.

"Good morning to you too."

Arthur blinked up at the warlock and stated obviously with a hint of indignation, "You flicked me."

"At least I didn't grab your big toe this time," the raven-haired young man said brightly with an impish grin.

"Grab his _big toe_?" Lot repeated slowly under his breath.

"Don't ask," Lancelot, who winced at the memory—Arthur had not taken that very kindly, and needless to say, the blonde man was not at all impressed by Merlin's inventiveness _that_ morning—muttered aside to the Escetian King.

Instead of pouting or raging or bantering, as Arthur usually did when this incident was mentioned (of course, the story had spread through the castle within hours and was fondly recalled often enough), the King's sapphire eyes glistened, and he shot bolt upright to draw level with Merlin, who he studied very carefully before he slowly looked up to the ceiling, where Merlin's conjured light bobbed, cracked a watery smile, released a shaky bark of laughter, and quickly embraced his friend.

Gwaine could hear, just at the extreme edge of his hearing, the King whisper with a smirk, "I owed you, seeing as you flew through me the first time."

Now _that _was a strange statement if he ever heard one, but Gwaine, shrugging and beaming happily, shuffled forward to take his turn when the King released Merlin. Percival and Lancelot, both laughing with something reminiscent to survivor's-relief, followed his lead.

Because Merlin—the bravest and perhaps the most strongly willed of them all—did it, as he always did. He kept his promises to them—to Camelot, to his friends, and to his King. He denied Morgana any advantage in this war. He saved himself from a fate worse than death…a fate worse than landing a place in Hell. And by doing that, he had saved everyone from Camelot and beyond from _himself_.

Emrys was his own man, and his magic, his own to command.

And yet… there was still work to be done and battles to be fought.

When Merlin drew away from Lancelot, Gwaine saw that their warlock, despite the emotional, physical, and psychological pain he had been put through and despite the exhaustion he must be feeling now, was only too ready to fight those battles, and when Gwaine looked at Merlin and met his eyes, he would always and forever see the friend that none of them deserved, the man that every other should draw inspiration from and strive to be.

And one day, he would be damn proud that _he _was a part of the legend that Merlin and Arthur were unfolding before the world's very eyes.

At the moment, however, he was too overwhelmed, too damn ready to fight these bastards, too ready for a celebratory tankard of mead—for Gwaine had no doubt that they would win, and when they had a royally peeved and horribly wronged Merlin on their side, Gwaine had very good reason to have now-renewed complete and utter confidence—for such philosophical sentiment, and instead, he felt nothing but joy, which eclipsed most of his anticipation of the approaching battle, that his friend was whole once more and awe in that he was whole once more _at all_.

Apparently, he wasn't the only one thinking along similar lines. "How do you do it, Merlin?" Lancelot breathed under his breath in amazement.

Upon overhearing that, the warlock flushed (much to Gwaine's satisfaction) around Percival, who was the last Knight to give Merlin a big bear-hug—the poor man had been more pale than a corpse during his ordeal, and it just reinforced the fact that Merlin's magic, and his spirit, was back…and that their imminent doom wasn't _imminent _nor necessarily _doom_ anymore, so it went without being said that it was nice to see some color in his mate's cheeks.

While Merlin was being bombarded by the Knights, Gwaine happened to notice that Arthur sat back with his eyes closed—was that a _tear?_—and head tilted back, his lips moving in what appeared to be a silent expression of sincere gratitude.

It proved to Gwaine that the King had been far more scared about Merlin, about Camelot, about his Queen and his men and his people, and about what _might _have been than he had revealed, and something about that lone tear, which betrayed his hidden emotion, and the strength Arthur had shown for Merlin's sake—for if Arthur had shown doubt and had any less faith in Merlin, they would not be in a very good place at all, would they?—made Gwaine feel a rush of respect and then anger.

Neither of them deserved what they had been put through.

Running an unobtrusive eye over the Druidic symbol scarred on Lot's chest, Gwaine growled to himself, _Hell, none of them did_.

_Morgana_, on the other hand—she _would _get what she deserved.

And that was a promise Gwaine would _ensure_ was not broken.

~…~

Merlin was okay.

He was back. He _came_ back.

The moment Arthur saw the exhilaration on his friend's face, he knew, but there was something so precious, so wonderful about memorizing every aspect of Merlin's face in his joyful triumph. And there was something even _more _amazing when Arthur, greedy for further proof of the miracle, followed the well-acquainted trail—the trail, the scent, the _feeling _of the beautiful, beautiful magic unique to Merlin—looked up to see the magical light floating about the ceiling of their dungeon.

It permeated Arthur with its familiarity, with its warmth, with its… Merlin-ness.

When it was gone, he knew that he had missed its presence and that something of Merlin had been taken with it, but it wasn't until it was back that Arthur realized just how _much _he had missed it and just how much of Merlin it had taken with it.

It and its master had been centimeters away from slipping from Arthur for good.

But now that the magic, embracing him in _his _golden shield, was back, and now that Merlin was back, Arthur became painfully aware that just as Merlin couldn't live without magic, he, to some extent, physically couldn't live to be without it nor the man who wielded it.

All the fear that he suppressed—fear that was less difficult to hide away when Merlin continued to be Merlin, despite the unbearable pain he had been in—so that Merlin would never feel any less about himself or blame himself for the precarious situation they were in, so that Merlin's floundering spirit could find his to latch onto, so that he wouldn't fail Merlin, so that he could support Merlin during what he _knew _(he had _felt _it—the horrifying wandering of his warlock's soul, the emptiness and coldness) was the worst trial that the warlock had ever had to face, so that he wouldn't think about Merlin as _dead_ to him…

He was so grateful. _So grateful_. Unspeakably, indescribably thankful.

Arthur would never have to think of Merlin as an enemy. He would never have to see him turn into the monster Merlin himself feared he could become. He would never have to see Morgana commanding him like a puppet. He would never have to see Merlin's lively eyes dulled, lifeless, and bland. He would never have to see the world around him ablaze. He would never have to see Camelot fall by his hand, forced to betray his other half in the most monstrous way. He would never have to see Guinevere or his knights or his people die by his best friend's hand. He would never have to wonder about his unborn children and about the friendships and alliances that went unmade. He would never have to be _afraid_ of Merlin.

The thought of being afraid of Merlin made Arthur's heart rise in his throat and a thick painful, lump grow there.

Those were the big things.

But no, thanks to Merlin, ever loyal and strong, and Freya, lovely, forgiving Freya—despite what they said, he couldn't take _any_ credit for the magic wrought here this day—he didn't have to ever have to live through those things.

He _would _see Merlin smile and hear him laugh again. He would still be able to banter and smirk and drag him out on hunting trips just to annoy him. He would still be able to draw his sword and look to his right to see Merlin, with his kaleidoscopic eyes, standing there. 'Til the end. He would still be able to see Camelot grow under his, Guinevere's, and Merlin's direction. He would be able to rub his knuckles into the man's head and throw things at him and tell him to shut up only to be ignored and watch him stumble over the same crack over and over and call him idiot and hear the response of "prat."

The little things in life…

He wouldn't them for granted again.

And it was for the little things—the little things he nearly lost and that he thanked the gods he wouldn't have to lose—that the King finally allowed a tear slide down his cheek.

~…~

Gwaine wasn't the only one to see Arthur's moment of open vulnerability. Lot, too, noticed, but he respectfully kept his distance and pretended not to have noticed at all.

The Camelotian King deserved that courtesy.

Many kings might have taken that opportunity to scorn and ridicule the young Pendragon. No. Not _might. _Because he was a _Pendragon _of _Camelot, _because he was rather untested as King, because he had made perhaps the most world-shattering decision in eons when he revised the laws on magic, they would have _jumped_ on the chance to do so, and they would have done so mercilessly and vindictively.

For weren't kings _meant _to be strong? Weren't kings neither given the chance to _feel_ nor the chance to follow their heart over their head? Weren't kings meant to rule and definitely not meant to show any amount of weakness to either their enemies, who would be attracted to that weakness like moths to a flame, or their allies, who would turn their backs the moment weakness was shown? Weren't kings not allowed to be friends to their people, and weren't kings meant to be distant, stoic, stern, and an epitome of power?

It _sickened _Lot to imagine _those _kings' sneers and taunts that the Pendragon might have had to endure if any king but he had seen this vulnerable moment.

In Lot's eyes, however, it made King Arthur all the more strong.

It proved his undying devotion and love to his people and his kingdom, and more than anything, it proved that nothing in this world meant more to him than their safety and their happiness under his rule…

And it was there right before his very eyes that he saw the bond between them with more clarity than he could have ever imagined.

It seemed so tangible, so real, and at the same time so impossible, so… enigmatic and complex that these two men could have such a connection, such a friendship and fierce loyalty to each other. The willingness of one to die for the other, the lengths to which one would go for their counterpart—for Lot could hardly imagine one without the other now—the faith they had in each other, the strength they drew from each other, the shoulders they were only too _happy _to lend to the other to cry on, strengths and faults mirroring and paralleling their other half's and yet simultaneously contrasting and complimenting the other's, so snarky to each other but respectful of the other's abilities and skills, insulting and then laughing, the same but not the same…

They couldn't be more different. One a Pendragon, born of noble-blood, the other a supposed nobody of peasant-blood. One a king, the other a sorcerer. But…if Lot had anything to say about their values and sense of justice and morality (and their sense of humor and their ridiculous childishness) and if the stories were true, they were more alike than not. If the stories were true, one was born _of_ magic and the other born _with _magic. If the stories were true, they were the two most powerful men to ever stand side-by-side in this world, united by something beyond duty, beyond the mortal definition of love, beyond even destiny.

That something glistened on Arthur's cheek in the form of one teardrop.

It didn't necessarily surprise Lot that Arthur hid that tear from Merlin so that the warlock would not be aware of how horribly and terribly frightened he had been for him…and for what Merlin might have had become and for what he himself might have lost, but it did surprise him when he realized…Arthur really was so young, so pure-hearted, and, despite the immortality of his bond with Merlin—they both looked so…_human_.

And it was so that Lot decently appeared to _not _notice these things, and before Merlin could notice himself, Lot took it upon himself, the moment Percival released the scrawny warlock, to grasp the younger man's forearm as both a distraction and a friendly gesture of congratulations and high esteem.

Suddenly feeling very awkward under the unnatural eyes of Merlin, which still shone with wonder and utter elation at the return of his magic, Lot, who was never very great with words, merely nodded his head once and felt a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

Apparently, that was all that Merlin needed from him. "Thank you, Lot," Camelot's Court Sorcerer said.

"What for?" Lot asked in surprise.

The warlock did not answer. Instead he smiled a knowing smile—an immensely _annoying_, irritatingly frustrating, and downright _unfair_ I-know-and-or-see-something-you-don't smirk—that made Lot, even though he hadn't the slightest idea what was going through the strange man's mind, impulsively scowl.

Some things hadn't changed there then. Even with his harsh views on magic abating, the man _still _managed to get under Lot's skin.

With everything still going on, with the fact that Morgana was after both Camelot and Escetia and had amassed an army and the fact that Kay had betrayed them all, with the still fresh-memory of seeing _powerful_ magic firsthand for the first time in his life, Lot suddenly felt that he had his priorities quite jumbled, and now even _more _agitated and mildly amused, the king teased gruffly, "I'm not sure whether I want to ask you what the hell happened or why the hell we're still in here."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur's eyes fly open, and just as he hastily wiped away at any trace of tears on his face, Merlin's eyes slipped from Lot's jade to meet his King's.

Without looking back to Lot, Merlin chuckled sheepishly and said, "Well, about that…it's rather hard to explain."

"The rock?" Lancelot prompted gently.

For some reason, the young raven-haired man looked startled, and when he looked down to the stone somehow still clasped in his fist and released his death-grip on it, they all saw periodic, steady flashes of sparkling gold across its surface.

Merlin cocked his head at it and opened his mouth to say something, but suddenly, a shudder possessed him. It wasn't a shudder of fear or unease nor was it a shudder caused by the chill.

It was a shudder of power.

The multifaceted blue eyes flicked closed, and the warlock's head shot up and cocked the other way, his head tilting once and then once again… and looking for all the world like he was listening for something in the far distance.

A low rumble vibrated in the warlock's narrow chest, scaring Lot out of his wits. His startled jump made Arthur through a strange apologetic smirk-grimace at him before turning his steady sapphire eyes to watch his warlock's rapidly changing facial expressions, which somehow morphed from a small frown to feral and toothy grin within the space of a few seconds.

"Kilgharrah's coming!" Merlin announced, leaping to his feet with startling speed and pocketing the stone. "We need to be ready for him."

Releasing celebratory crows, the Knights, whose eyes were alight with determination and flashing with harsh battle-lust, followed his lead, but Lot, suddenly feeling lost and very much out of place, blurted, "_Who?_"

"The Great Dragon," Percival answered helpfully.

"He was on his way here anyway," Merlin added, exchanging a loaded look with Arthur. "The moment he couldn't sense me anymore, he knew something was wrong."

The King nodded slowly and asked seriously, "How close?"

"Close," Merlin said. "But not close enough to beat _her."_

In response to this, the King of Camelot hissed an inappropriate and vulgar curse under his breath.

Looking back and forth between the King and warlock and the Knights, who seemed to have been strongly struck by the statement, Lot furrowed his brow and suddenly gasped, "_Morgana's_ coming?"

Snorting disdainfully, Merlin said with a dark, but slightly mocking tone, "She literally screamed her intentions. I wouldn't expect anything less of her, really, not after she felt me break her enchantment. She's _livid_, and when she's in a rage, you know how she is. Her judgment isn't particularly good."

"Like deeming it an appropriate time to confront you, for example?" Gwaine joked with a sly grin.

The stormy blue eyes darkened. "Exactly."

A chill went down Lot's spine at the suggestion behind that short exchange.

Averting his eyes to the door, Merlin continued thoughtfully, "Transportation spells take more time to prepare than other spells, so I'd say that we have a few minutes—"

When he raised his hand to the door, Arthur exclaimed in disbelief, "Hey, hang on, Merlin! You're just going to charge out of there without discussing a plan?"

"You might have gotten your magic back," Lancelot agreed sagely, "but that's no reason to be reckless."

Merlin's arm dropped, and quirking an eyebrow at his king and then Lancelot, he said impishly, "I thought the plan was obvious."

"Well, would you care to enlighten us, _Mer_lin? Because, apparently, we have missed something very crucial, and you seem to have some strange idea that we can read your mind," the King drawled sarcastically.

"We need to find our way to clothes, boots, armor, and swords preferably _before _Morgana appears," Merlin stated simply. "Put the guards to sleep along the way, be quiet, and it's really as simple as that."

"That's it?"

"Um…yes?"

"What about—?"

"I'll stall her until Kilgharrah shows up," Merlin argued. "Then, if she still plans to follow through with her attack on Camelot, we fly dramatically away."

Having seen enough of Merlin's magic to know he was just as powerful as others suggested, Lot saw little fault with the plan—there was no doubt he'd join the Camelotians in whatever they endeavored, of course, and find his best part to play; he had his own score to settle with a certain witch and traitor, after all—and he felt a surge of respect for the warlock's resolute authority and calm-headed logic.

Arthur was obviously not of the same opinion. Shaking his blonde head and briefly catching the gazes of his three Knights, who either frowned thoughtfully or scowled with disapproval, Camelot's King sighed, and his sapphire eyes, worried, reluctant, and glinting with a stubborn edge, finally met his Court Sorcerer's. "Merlin," he began in a stern, but concerned tone.

"Don't give me that, Arthur," Merlin warned with a small smile. "I've drawn plenty of energy from the stone, and I'm ready for her."

The Pendragon's gaze scanned Merlin's face, which was set with unbendable willpower and fierce determination. The frigid fire of merciless protectiveness and of desire for retribution blazed in the thin raven-haired man's blue eyes, in which Lot could have sworn flickered with undercurrents of furious, glorious gold.

The fire was catching. It sparked, flickered, and then roared in Arthur's own eyes, and after clenching his jaw and smirking lightly, the King said, "I daresay we are."

When the two men grinned at each other, Merlin said something in a strange language that Lot didn't understand.

"_Áfiehtaþ gædre__, brōþor (1)."_

"Always," Arthur agreed.

Turning to the Knights, Merlin said again in their own tongue, "We fight together."

"Wouldn't have it any other way, mate," Percival said.

"Well, then," Merlin said with a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he raised his hand again to the thick cell door, "let's go wreak some havoc."

"And save the world," Gwaine added. "Can't forget that one, mate."

"Merlin _would _be the one to forget that detail in favor of destruction," Arthur teased.

Groaning, Merlin retorted exasperatedly, "Your chambers get turned into a bog _once_, and you just can't let it go, can you?"

"Shut up, Merlin. We have a deadline to meet…not that you're any good with those either."

And so without being told twice, the chuckling warlock's eyes blazed gold—the look on his face when he did it…Lot would remember forevermore—and the door flew open.

~…~

It was pathetic at how _easily _they moved through the sprawling dungeons.

Really pathetic.

But, of course, he, Arthur, and the Knights, seasoned stalkers and escapees, constantly looked over their shoulders, kept their footsteps light, and edged around each corner with the cautiousness they might have used in a heavily fortified fortress of _competent _guards.

These guards—they weren't competent in the slightest…not that they would have any chance against Merlin's magic, anyway.

There was no resistance and hardly any of the guards, the poor souls lost to the drug, even _noticed _their advance before Merlin muttered a word in the Old Tongue to make them, their spears (they had no swords, unfortunately) clutched in hand, fall into a peaceful slumber.

The rush of magic rolling in his veins again…it was a feeling incomparable to any. A few times, he had to reign himself in so that he wouldn't get over eager and put them in a sleep that lasted weeks.

When he came upon the black-cloaked man that he had bitten, one of the two thugs who had given him the poison in the first place, however, he allowed himself to be a little more rough than necessary.

Behind him, the King grunted with satisfaction when Merlin blasted this one so that his head hit the wall, and after placing a hand on Merlin's trembling shoulder, he said quietly with a stoic tone, "I would have killed him."

The pride in Arthur's sapphire eyes as he considered his warlock was enough to brush aside the small, dark part of Merlin that wanted him _dead, _and without looking back and finding himself, Merlin found the willpower to move past the prone body.

And all the while, Merlin probed with his magic, searching for a hint of Morgana.

She wouldn't sneak up on them. They had gone too far now to be compromised and recaptured now—not when the scent of fresh air and the taste of freedom were so close to being theirs.

And he and the others sure as _hell _weren't going to back in those cells.

And gods help the one that tried to stop them. Merlin, simmering with the wrath of Emrys for the injustice done to him and his King, wasn't planning on letting _anyone_ touch any of them.

In a strange way, Merlin was _gleeful _that he had angered Morgana so much by breaking free of her Dark magic and that she was on her way to him now.

She would see what happened when she taunted an untamed lion still licking his wounds.

She would soon learn not to underestimate him again.

But then again, this was _Morgana_, who had made it a rather bad habit to underestimate him and Arthur.

Merlin's eyes flickered briefly back to Arthur, and they softened when he took in the King, who had hardly passed a second thought about his flogging and instead comforted _him _in those dank cells…

It made Merlin's heart swell to think of how much Arthur had done for him during this ordeal, but this wasn't about him anymore. With the threats against Arthur's life and threats for Camelot's downfall, with the scars Arthur bore now on his back forever scarring Merlin's own conscience…

He wouldn't hold back.

None of them would. Kilgharrah, most especially.

When Kilgharrah's ancient mind brushed against his, Merlin almost didn't recognize it. Never before had the dragon seemed so unhinged, so _frantic._ He felt the strain in Kilgharrah's wings, the vast amount of effort he had been using to try to find the spiritual connection to his Dragonlord…It wasn't until that moment that Merlin realized just how much Kilgharrah _cared _for him—for them _all_—and the dragon's rage, stemming from his fear and concern for Merlin's wellbeing, only increased upon touching and sensing the damage behind the healed soul.

Suddenly sensing something at the edge of his hearing, Merlin stopped abruptly and stiffened, an action that had the Knights and two royals, though they had heard nothing, immediately vigilant and still.

Someone was there. Judging by the stifled gasping, the overwhelming well of _emotion _that Merlin could subtly sense pouring from that someone, and the intelligence of that someone to attempt to be just as stealthy as the group was being, it wasn't one of the drugged men.

Nostrils flaring and eyes blazing, Merlin whirled around the wall and flew his hand up to pin the newcomer up against the wall.

He met pale teal eyes wide with surprise.

Kay, dropping his sword and fingering at the pressure against his throat, made a brief choking noise and sent a wary glance at Merlin's hand over him, but then, after closing his eyes, he went slack and did not fight the magic.

The gesture—a sign that he would submit to Merlin's will and to his decision of his fate—made Merlin's hand falter and made him loosen his hold on Kay, and the stormy blue eyes scanned the ex-knight's countenance.

Most of the Knights had cried out in shock at the speed of Merlin's attack, and it was Arthur who recovered first, moved to Merlin's side, slipped Kay's sword into his hand, and placed the gleaming tip against Kay's chest.

The traitor's eyes opened slowly to look first at Merlin before shifting to Arthur.

Merlin's eyes didn't leave Kay, but he felt Arthur, as if expecting Merlin to reproach him or give an approving nod or to at least be the first to speak to Kay, look at him, study his face, and then come to his own decision about how to deal with the traitor.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't run you through," the King said with a steady tone and cold eyes, "Or let Merlin blow your head into oblivion."

When Arthur pressed the sword a little harder into Kay's chest, Merlin finally said with a strong voice, _"Wait_."

There was no pleading in Kay's eyes, no defiance or anger, no distrust or hatred, but there, amongst the hidden remorse and self-loathing, was some fire… a fire that Merlin recognized as _purpose_.

* * *

><p>(1) Translation: We fight together, brother.<p>

AN: Seems to be a pattern here: me not updating in a month and then being horrible and indecent enough to leave you with a cliffie, that is. ;) I wasn't too thrilled with this chapter (hell, I don't even know where a lot of it CAME from), but I'm thrilled with how the Arthur part turned out. :D

Oh, and the big toe bit... :P Real story there from the strange life of Oz. I woke up my dad once like that. His reaction was much like Arthur's, funnily enough.

Anyway, not too many chapters left, guys! There'll be BAMFness and action in the upcoming chapters for certain! And some more of Kay's POV, I think. :) Forgive my errors!

Oz out.


	20. A Silver Pheasant

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: Oh my goodness, is this an update that took only three weeks to get up?! :D Yes, this IS an update that wasn't a month in the making! Your eyes aren't deceiving you!

*SPOILERS* Alright, before we go on, I have to say: I CALLED IT. If you saw 5x02... with Katie's most incredible acting of a mad/insane Morgana… yes, I wrote 'Her Doom' and this fic with a less stable Morgana than we've seen in s3/s4 because I wanted there to be a point when Morgana would lose her mind a little and create an even more epic, more believable, and more wonderful villain for us. It's safe to say that I'm a _happy _camper. Took a little longer than I expected, but it's happening! She stole the show tonight! She and Mordred. :D *END SPOILERS*

I thought I'd get to some Morgana-Merlin epicness this chapter, but alas. My excuse? Kay. Who else? *smirks* So to make up for the lack of Merlin BAMF, there's some Gwen and Kay BAMF instead. ;) And the cheesiest ending line I've written TO DATE.

Enjoy:

* * *

><p><strong>A Silver Pheasant<strong>

It was a bloody war zone.

And the actual _battle _hadn't even _started_ yet.

Gaius and Geoffrey had long since backed away with their hands held up in a placating gesture when the siblings, with blazing, unyielding brown eyes flashing, attempted to have them draw sides.

The two elderly men were braver than the Knight was. He, for one, didn't even _try _to get involved. Leon could coordinate battle strategies for sieges, teach a young recruit the basics of swordplay and footwork, demonstrate advanced skills without a single stumble for _older _recruits, and fully understand the complicated guidelines of tourneys and melees, but when it came to _this_…

He was an only child. He didn't _understand _this, really. He didn't understand the rules to this kind of battle.

So he hid from their gazes so that they couldn't possibly find an excuse to drag him into theirs.

The other councilors, however, weren't as smart as he, Gaius, and Geoffrey were (and they certainly weren't as quiet as the Druids in the room were), and they were either foolishly trying to break apart the siblings from their argument or foolishly attempting to argue one side over the other, which only led to them constantly, eloquently, and subtly _switching _sides and backtracking at the responding heated glare from Gwen or Elyan respectively.

Yes, either way, they were fools to try to interfere in this argument, and it was rather silly for them to try at all. Leon supposed that that was because the most impatient and loudest of the councilors probably hadn't any siblings either.

The difference between him and them, however, was that they obviously didn't know these two as well as Leon did.

Their mother had worked as a maid in his father's household, so he had known them for a _long _time, indeed.

Yet, somehow, it felt like he had known about their spats for even _longer_. Those spats might have been few and far between, but that didn't mean that all hell broke lose when Elyan and Gwen _did_ have one.

"I am _not _a figurehead, Elyan! I refuse to be!" Gwen shouted.

"That's not what I'm—"

"But it is. While Arthur's gone, I can't just stand by and be _pretty _while the battle goes on all around me."

Briefly, Leon pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbed his eyes, and wondered how it was that this argument was happening _now _of all times… In taking a quick glance around the council room, it seemed to Leon as though everyone but Elyan had known Gwen's intentions.

"I need you _safe_, Gwen! _Arthur_ asked me to keep you safe! He pulled me aside before he left, even though he knew I would protect you without his asking it of me," Elyan said desperately. There were mumbles and nods of agreement from most of the council members. "I don't think he'd appreciate it if you were hurt, and he certainly wouldn't judge you for _standing around being pretty_, as you say, as long as you're—Gwen, you're not only my sister. You're the _Queen _now."

"And that's exactly why I can't stay inside the castle."

"But—"

"It's not like I'm going to be _fighting _myself, Elyan!"

"Like hell you are," Elyan grumbled. "And like hell I'm going to let you gallivant—"

"_Gallivant_?" Gwen repeated in a deadly tone.

_Oh, well _that_ certainly wasn't a good word to use_, Leon thought to himself with a wince. Judging by the steadily creeping eyebrow, Gaius must have thought similarly.

"I'm not stupid enough to _gallivant_ through the city during a siege, brother dearest."

Elyan glowered. "Now you're just making too much out of nothing."

"This isn't _nothing_, Elyan!"

"The fact that I used 'gallivant' instead of—oh, I don't know—some other word_ is _nothing. You _know _what I meant, and you know I don't think you're stupid. Though that armor you _think_ you're going to be wearing when they attack suggests otherwise."

"He does have a point, My Lady," Lord Rupert, who finally managed to get a word in, said sternly.

What Gwen was wearing seemed to be more of a fashion statement than anything. Paired with boots and leggings, the chain mail was light and fragile enough to look like nothing more than a shimmering tunic, and even without the belt of intertwined leather hugging her hips, it was formfitting. Simple, but beautifully crafted leather and metal bracers wrapped around both of her wrists and forearms, and two pieces of fine armor were strapped to her shoulders.

Against a sword, the ensemble would do little to protect her.

The Queen rolled her eyes and deadpanned, "Did you not think that Arthur wouldn't immediately demand that Merlin enchant this for me? Not that Merlin needed to be _asked _at all. Hell, he was there when it was delivered to my rooms, and he didn't even hesitate to put wards on it."

Elyan pursed his lips, and Gwen, smirking smugly and victoriously, added, "It is just as strong as _your _armor. Perhaps even more so, knowing Merlin."

Shaking his head fondly, Leon muttered with a hint of caution in his voice, "He _has _probably done a whole manner of things to it."

Gaius snorted and said, "You should have seen how much fun he was having when he enchanted his cloak…or the ring for Arthur, Leon. _Whole manner of things_ doesn't even begin to cover it."

A smile twitched at Gwen's lips, and taking advantage of her brother's hesitation, she said to the elderly physician and the Knight, "He did seem to have a strange amount of glee in doing it for me, and he did ramble on about it. Arthur eventually had to drag him out of the room so that he could actually get some work done."

When the Queen had started speaking, there was a light hint of teasing humor in her tone, but by the time she finished, the words became shaky with worry.

There was a bit of a tense silence at the mention of their absent warlock and King, who they knew they couldn't dare to hope would return in time but who they hoped would return in time all the same, and the Druids in the room bowed their heads in a way that made Leon suspect that they were talking mentally amongst themselves.

Brow crinkling concernedly at his sister's distress and wincing when the reality of what lay waiting for them came crashing down upon him—down upon them _all_—he stepped forward. "Gwen, they'll be alright."

"I know," she whispered. "And so will I.

"This is _our _battle, Elyan. This isn't your battle, Arthur's battle, or even Merlin's battle. Whatever they did to anger her—that scream—they've won_ their _battle. This battle is Camelot's. And as you pointed out, I am Queen. Whether their King and warlock are here or there, it is my duty and my honor to serve her and her people. I have to lead them against this…and I won't be cowed. Not by _her_, of all people."

All around Leon, the councilors, Druids, and knights stood straighter at the strength and faith in their Queen's voice, and deep in his breast, he recognized the fire of inspired passion and protectiveness he always found burning when there was a battle looming on the horizon.

It was drawing closer now. Ever since the witch's scream resounded through the streets and pierced their minds, each and every person in Camelot had known it.

A sudden vulnerability appeared in Gwen's eyes, and she admitted, "And there's another reason. A personal reason. Her abuse of magic is what tarnishes the reputation and goodness and beauty that _is _magic, and I—I hate it, Elyan. I hate seeing her using it like this. After all we have learned from Merlin, from the Druids, from our _friends_—after all that _they've _been through in the years following Uther's Purge, it is time we fought for what magic _should _be. For what _I_ have come to stand for where it concerns magic. And for what I hope it can do to benefit this kingdom and _all _its people, non-magical and magical alike."

Iseldir's broad smile could not have gotten any larger, and a fair few of the Druids there shamelessly allowed a tear or two to fall in gratitude.

It still was unreal to them, Leon realized, to be standing there in Camelot as allies, as free men and women free to practice their art and their gift openly, as friends, and hearing Gwen's compassion and fervid belief in them and their own teachings…

It made a difference.

After scanning his sister's face, Elyan's eyes softened with understanding, and even though he still didn't look particularly happy about it, he relented to a small, compassionate smile that showed clearly how proud he was of her.

Taking a step forward and placing a hand on her shoulder, he said simply, "Camelot is lucky to have you."

The Queen flushed modestly, and taking her brother's compliment as indirect surrender, she turned back to the council to finally begin discussing what it was that they were actually summoned for.

However, before Gwen could open her mouth to speak, Kynon, who had been in charge of looking out for Morgana's approaching army, burst into the chambers and reported breathlessly, "Two hours. We have two hours until she is at our walls."

The stillness following the announcement weighed down upon them heavily.

Eyes flashing, Gwen was the one to break the silence by rapidly shooting off last minute assurances and orders. "All the women and children are accounted for?"

"Yes, my Lady."

"The shields?"

Iseldir bowed his head and answered, "Everything went according to plan."

"Gaius?"

"The infirmary is stocked and ready, Guinevere."

"Good. You have enough hands to help?"

Even before Gaius finished nodding his head to reassure her, Gwen was saying, "Please have the remainder of your healers and defenders go to their stations immediately then, Iseldir, be it in the infirmary or up in the towers. And Kynon—" she added "—thank you. You have done well."

"Good luck, my Lady," Kynon responded with a small smile.

A jolt of sad unease flashed through Leon as he realized that this—this might be the last time he saw some of these faces. Having seen so many battles and having felt this clenching of his heart time and time again, he would have thought that it would not effect him by now.

No. It would never cease to send shudders up his spine and form a lump at the back of his throat, but this time, something was different.

It had nothing to do with the fact that Arthur, his Prince and his King, and Merlin, who was now so much a part of Camelot and Arthur it was impossible to imagine fighting this battle without him, were not there with them. It wasn't that he was afraid that they would lose.

It was that they had so much _more _to lose. New friendships, new mentalities, new ideas, and new _life _had been blossoming in Camelot, and this—this was their chance to prove to those who still doubted them that magical people and non-magical people _could _work together for the hope of a better tomorrow.

This battle might be their last chance to prove to the skeptics—those cruel people who taunted and sneered at Merlin and the Druids in the streets, who picked fights and illegally beat those with magic in the dark alleyways, who stubbornly refused to see the truth—that magic was not to be feared but to be revered, respected, and above all, _accepted_.

It was clear from the break in Gwen's voice that she had come to the same realization as he did when she responded, "And you."

With that, the Druids, Gaius, Geoffrey, and a few of the Lords assisting the organization of the aforementioned stations took their leave hurriedly.

"Captain, please gather your guards and soldiers and—" At this point, when Leon made a determined move to suggest that he go to assemble the knights, Gwen immediately read his mind and said, "No, Leon, stay, please. Lord Rupert will see to the knights, and you and Elyan can join him in a moment."

And on and on it went, until finally, all who remained in the chambers were Leon, Elyan, and Gwen.

After a silence, Gwen whispered in a thoughtful tone, "It really is happening."

"Yes."

"It should be over, shouldn't it?" she asked, a weariness and wry humor seeping into her words. "Morgana was never one to see any other way but her way—I would no better than anyone—but with magic free? What drives her now?

"Power? She has plenty. Destiny? She's not one to heed Destiny's bidding. Satisfaction and revenge? Perhaps. Has the Dark magic she practices finally corrupted her mind and soul? Has she lost her sanity to the addiction of power? Most likely.

"Whatever the reason, _we_ need to be the ones that finish this. Once and for all. She's ruthless, dangerous, and has nothing to lose, and every one of us must play our part. But, when her reasons are just as selfish and insane as I suspect—"

"—and when we have something worth fighting for…" Leon interceded calmly.

"In the name of honor, loyalty, and love, she cannot stand in our way," Gwen finished with a nod. "We will win this battle."

~…~

It was terrifying.

The clarity—it was terrifying.

For in his clarity, it was just that. _Clear_.

_Everything _was laid out for him to see.

It was as clear as day. What he had done. And as though he were trapped in a storm out at sea, the tumultuous waves crashing, rolling, somersaulting, suffocating and pressing, forcing him deeper and deeper into the cold...

_What had he done_? _Dear _gods_ what had he _done_?_

A sharp cry escaped Kay's lips as a fierce stab of horror and guilt twisted into his innards, and in response to the pain, angry tears budded in his teal eyes. Raising his shaking hands to brush furiously at them, he suddenly froze and stared, wide-eyed, at the pale hands covered in the blood of men who were _more_ than he…men he—he would live for, and the one he would die for…

Lip curling with disgust and fierce self-loathing, Kay thrust his hands from his sight.

They had done _horrible _things. Evil things. Things so evil and so horrible that _he, _their master, shouldn't be allowed to live.

He shouldn't be allowed to live regardless, and berating himself mercilessly for blaming the hands as though they were separate entities with minds of their own, Kay dug his fingernails into the fleshy part of his soiled palm.

Forever tainted with their nobleblood and stained black from the drug—he'd be unable to bear the sight of them for long. For as long as he should live.

Kay wouldn't be able to look at them without remembering his shame and the evil inside him.

The _drug_… Merlin's empty, spiritless eyes and biting, harsh tone…

Bile rose in his throat, and he shook his head vigorously as image upon image, clear as crystal, bombarded him.

The crack of the whip upon Arthur's back. The _pleasure _he'd felt. The damn childish pleasure of _winning _and making the Pendragon_ kneel_ before him—it overpowered the monster of fear, which he only now realized was the part of him still _Kay_, knight of Camelot and son of the famed Sir Ector.

The lines of red permanently etched onto Lot's skin. The most brutal and barbaric way to remind the Escetian king of his failings. He had ordered it to be done and _laughed. _He'd _reveled _in his _cousin's _screams.

But, the imaginary black and crimson on Kay's hands was _nothing _to the scars he had left on _them_.

And so the guilt crushed him as the world around him sharpened with pitiless truth and bitter reality.

The release of the Dark magic embedded in his mind might have offered freedom, but all in all, what "freedom" was this—that he had to live with what he had done?

The moment he tasted freedom, it had been clear that this was no freedom.

The moment that the dark shadow smothering his soul was lifted, it had been clear.

The moment that he felt a swoop of what he could only describe as _exhilaration—_the simple, but powerful exhilaration of hope and of _renewed _inspiration and drive—it had been clear.

The moment he felt Morgana's presence fleeing from him, automatically subduing the other self—the cruel snake of greed, lust, and envy—that had taken possession of his body, it had been clear.

The moment that he realized the answer to that ever-repetitive question in his mind and that he whispered his vow in a language he didn't know but _understood _with every fiber of his being and_ felt_ in every fiber of his being…a vow made from the very bottom of his heart…

_What heart_? Kay wondered with a humorless sarcasm. Was _that _what he had when he'd—he'd—?

Where had it gone? His heart? His morality?

The frightening part was that he realized his heart and his morality had been there the whole time.

But, instead of portraying the man he wanted to become, that he was nearly sure he was on his way to becoming, his entire essence faltered, as it did in every man and woman at one point or another.

That one moment of weakness revealed the worst in him, and having not been strong enough to find the light, he embraced the darkness.

Morgana had taken advantage of it, but it wasn't _she_ who lost sight of the good in the world, who fell without bothering to try to pick himself up, who tortured—

_He _did. That was _him_. He did that without her help.

Yes, his heart had been there…it was just the blackest and most sinful corners of his heart, where his insecurities, his loathing of Uther's hand in his future and his life, and his jealousy hid—it was that part of him that had became apparent and had dominated over any self-control and virtuousness he had.

A small, rebellious part of his mind tried to comfort his floundering, sinking soul and tried to convince him that it had been the _drug_ and that he would never have acted on _any _of those dark thoughts and emotions had Morgana, wheedling her way into his unadvised sympathies, never appeared before him and offered him a drink...

No. _That _was _no _excuse. If an excuse at all, it was a cowardly one at that. The fact remained that it had been _him_. All of it.

And it _sickened_ him.

His stained fingers brushed across the hilt of his sword, and momentarily, the morbid, but appealing thought of drawing it and placing the sharp point against his chest flashed through his guilt-ridden mind.

_NO_!

A boulder slammed into his gut, and recoiling from the force, Kay sat heavily on a wooden chair, exhaled shakily, and, as was his habit, threaded his black-and-crimson-encrusted fingers through his ginger hair.

No. No. Not like that. No.

He had promised he'd fight.

_That is a promise. I don't break promises_, Merlin's voice resounded through his mind.

It didn't _matter_ that the total freedom he sought from this boiling and consuming regret could only be found in death.

It was too easy, and it—it…

Hissing in his ear incorporeally, his own voice mocked him, _I am my own. I belong to no one but myself_.

He had claimed to be his own, and he had lost his temper—no, _that _was mildly putting it. He had thrown a bloody _hissy fit_ when Merlin had suggested he didn't know who he was….

_She's feeding the darkest of your emotions, the darkest parts of yourself, and forcing them to the surface. I know you're better than this. This isn't you._

How _foolish_ he had been! Of course, it was only now, after he had condemned himself further than he already had getting mixed up with the witch, that he saw that the warlock was right, and it almost amused him (_Oh, the _irony_! _he joked bitterly) that itwas only now that he saw _exactly_ who he was.

He wasn't anyone but Kay. He didn't have to be anyone but Kay, and that is were he had failed—he had tried to be someone he wasn't, and that is why he felt as though he had never made a decision on his own terms and had never made a stand for his own beliefs.

It was a simultaneously mind-numbing and overwhelming realization.

Perhaps, just maybe, there was the barest hope of freedom in this epiphany, and as silly as it sounded, he wanted to get to _know _this Kay, who might have been drowning in light of his sins but who had a hint of something there that might be _worth_ saving.

Unable to catch himself in time, he found himself thinking,_ Besides_, _there isn't even the slightest chance of redemption in death. _

Kay shook his head vigorously and batted away the hopes of any such thing, but all the same, his steely eyes hardened and his jaw set.

For what it was worth, he _would_ try. He would try to ensure that he made up for his wrongdoings, and he couldn't do that by slipping a sword between his ribs.

But, therein lied the trouble.

Arthur and the Knights wouldn't hesitate to do it for him, and as he recalled their faces of terror when they saw Merlin ill, his lips twitched into a melancholy smile.

He couldn't expect to be given the chance to apologize (_Apologize?! _his mind scoffed at him ferociously. _What will an _apology _do to remedy anything?_), not that he would know where to start or where to find the courage to stand before them. He couldn't just waltz up to Arthur and Lot, to—to Merlin, whose magic he had—

Stiffening and then leaping to his feet so quickly that the chair he had been sitting on overturned, Kay hissed, "Dammit!"

Mindless panic bubbled in his chest, and even after patting his pockets frantically and finding the vial of pearly liquid he had been searching for, his heartbeat did not slow its pace.

Without hesitation, without fear of the consequence or of the eyes that had haunted him and that would always haunt him, without further acknowledging that they'd sooner kill him than listen to him, without even mentioning to himself that this wasn't going to be a pleasant reunion, Kay began to run.

He needed to get the antidote to Merlin. _That _is _all _that mattered.

When the door crashed open and nearly knocked over one of the senior guards, an older man that Kay had—Kay's throat seized up when a vague memory of how _horribly_ and _dismissively _he had treated his right-hand, who was the first to take his side and turn against Cenred and Morgause and who remained by his side throughout it all and who stood there_ even now_...

Even when Kay had turned his back and had instead surrounded himself with Morgana's men, the man hadn't left his side since the day he'd left Cenred's court.

_This is how they are_, he realized, but with another sad smile he amended, _No, nothing can compare to _them.

Besides, how long would this man stand by him when he discovered what Kay had done?

Not long, Kay assumed.

So, when Kay shot out of his chambers like a rabbit sprinting for its burrow with a hungry fox at its tail and when his friend stumbled hard—because it was imperative that he get to Merlin, the ex-knight only managed to shout with genuinely rueful tone and with a sheepish grin, "Sorry, there, Bo!" over his shoulder before he skidded around the corner.

Unbeknownst to Kay, a wide, toothy smile slowly spread across the older man's face, and after raising his eyebrow and giving him a look as though he were insane, his partner asked, "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"That," Kay's man whispered, "was the first time he called me 'Bo' in a few months."

If possible, Bothain's smile broadened, and having suspected that Kay had been in some trouble during these past few months (judging by the subtle, disquieting changes he'd seen in him, anyway), he felt a lump rise in his throat.

The trouble was no more. Kay was back.

~…~

It wasn't until the man standing guard at the entrance to the hidden dungeons attacked him as he passed that he realized Morgana might have had _her_ people, free of the Lybb and Druidic in heritage, there to keep an eye on him.

And of _course_ she would know when he'd broken free. Spies were like the wind. Everywhere and yet nowhere in sight.

The faintest memory of a piercing scream echoed in the corners of his mind.

Later, he'd have to thank whatever god it was that looked after him and that allowed the swipe of the man's dagger to only just graze his ribcage.

Taking advantage of the attacker's poor blow, Kay twisted away so that the man's momentum sent him sprawling to the ground, and swinging his sword, he noticed that—it was only a boy, a boy with wide, fearful eyes, untrained and vulnerable…

What inhumane monster put amateur fighters in the front lines?

Shifting the hilt his hand mid-swing and twisting his wrist at the last second, the flat of the blade hit the boy just so that his eyes rolled back into his head, and he slumped, unconscious, to the floor.

The other three guards standing near were the drug's men, and after recognizing Kay as their master, had merely watched the scene play out with disinterest in their dead eyes.

Screwing his eyes shut and struggling to keep his mind focused on the importance of his visit down here, Kay took a deep breath and ordered in a surprisingly level voice, "Keep him here, and don't let him out of your sight."

"As you wish, my Lord," the men mumbled.

Kay's eyes flew open, and as he turned his back to them, his shoulders tensed, and his entire being cringed. "Don't—" he choked in a barely audible whisper. "Don't call me that."

And without looking back, Kay plunged into the dark mouth of the ancient dungeons.

He kept his sword at the ready, and now suspicious because the positioning of the guards and cautious—it would be no good if he were killed by a surprise attack—he moved like a wraith among tombstones.

Kay was rewarded for his wariness and care when, just after he rounded the corner, his finely tuned instincts sensed something moving behind him, and without a thought, he threw up his sword to block Alvarr's from chopping his head from his neck.

Alvarr, his icy eyes blazing with fury, growled wordlessly and sprung away from Kay, who twirled his sword in a manner that so closely resembled Arthur Pendragon that Alvarr's eyes narrowed in recognition.

"Get out of my way," Kay snarled.

The renegade smirked mockingly, and he responded, "I'm done listening to your orders, _pup_."

Taking an aggressive step forward, Alvarr feinted to the side, and unaffected by the taunt, Kay, who predicted that Alvarr would toy with him in this way, was not fooledand swiped at Alvarr's unprotected side.

The Druid only just manage to leap away to avoid the unexpected retaliation, and the ex-knight, balancing easily on the tips of his toes and glaring at Alvarr, said again in a slow, intimating voice, "Get out of my way, Alvarr."

With a derisive snort, Alvarr taunted further, "Or what, Kay?"

Once upon a time, these tactics might have made him bristle and might have sent him into an arrogant, prideful rage that would have made him clumsy and mindless with overconfidence.

At the moment, it was just _annoying_. Exhaustive, even. Useless. _Ridiculous_.

When Kay didn't respond and continued regarding Alvarr with a cool teal-eyed glare, the Druid answered his own question with a hiss of, "_Nothing_. You can't do anything to stop us from obtaining this victory. I've waited a _long _time for this."

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait a bit longer," Kay said quietly.

"No, I don't think so," Alvarr mused with mock-thoughtfulness. "Those _brats _have meddled for the last time. I look forward to Morgana's coming."

Vague recollections of the witch's rants flashed through his mind, and the memory of her vivid descriptions of what she would do to Merlin, Arthur, and Guinevere when she got her hands on them were enough to make a shudder run down his spine.

Kay's eyes hardened into orbs of ice, and he said with a protective edge in his voice, "I won't let you touch them, and I'm not going to let Morgana get away with this."

A bark of disbelieving laughter escaped Alvarr's lips, and he mocked, "Well, well, Camelot's knight in shining armor and Escetia's savior returns. It appears Morgana's key pawn _does _have a conscience!" Baring his teeth in a horrible smile, he _tsk_'d and shook his head. "_Quite_ the time to find it again."

Oh, he had _no _idea.

Kay cocked his head, and a savage smile, darker and shrewder than Alvarr's, slowly spread across his face as he responded sinisterly, "_Quite_."

Fury colored Alvarr's face, and with a roar, he attacked, delivering a fierce and powerful overhand blow.

That was the last mistake he'd make.

They exchanged a few meaningless blows before Kay realized that this—fighting the skilled renegade, who was obviously only _playing_ with him...it was only a matter of time before the Druid had his giggle and used magic to finish him off—was _pointless _and was a complete _waste_ of his precious time (_Merlin_—_Merlin's _precious time), and eyes flaring with determination and a hint of mischief, he faked a stumble, landed rather painfully on one knee, and slipped a dagger hidden in his boot from his sheath.

Unsuspecting of his trick, Alvarr released a cry of triumph, and as he rushed in to take advantage of Kay's apparent weakness, the ex-knight smirked and, crouching and using his position to get more power in his lunge, rolled sneakily and gracefully under the raised arm. In one swift, controlled movement, Kay slipped the dagger to the hilt into Alvarr's unguarded stomach.

He skidded along his knees and only just avoided being crushed by the weight of Alvarr's body, gushing and spilling blood, as the Druid fell to his knees with gurgling gasps and eyes glassy and blank.

The pool of crimson on the ground muffled the thud.

The ex-knight looked at the man with disdain and perhaps even the barest hint of pity, and without a single wince, he gently nudged Alvarr's body over with his foot and reclaimed his dagger.

Under normal circumstances, he might have just left it there, but as he saw it, there was no use in wasting a perfectly fine dagger on scum like Alvarr.

Unease at his own hypocrisy washed over him. How could he judge Alvarr so harshly when he was no better than the renegade? When he had worked so closely with him these past few months?

Alvarr had taken Bo and Lot's places at his side the past few months, and the thought made his heart clench with self-hate and _contempt_.

Sobering immediately and losing the attitude and the pride he felt at accomplishing the daring move without injury and at ridding the world of one corrupt being, he wiped off the blood from the dagger and swiped the renegade's keys (because, being the idiot he was, he only _just _realized he'd left his key-ring on the table in his chambers).

Kay stood, wiped his hands on his pants, and didn't look back.

The next few minutes were a blur of torchlight and drugged guards' listless eyes, and he was taken completely by surprise when another sorcerer of Morgana's popped out at him with glowing gold eyes. However, his reaction at the scare had been to swing his sword madly, and luckily enough, his quick, reflexive movement cut off the spell on the sorcerer's lips when the blade hit flesh.

There was no glory in that, and Kay felt a rush of sorrow as the man toppled to the ground.

What a shameful way to die, and what an even more shameful way to kill an opponent.

Chest still heaving from the fright, Kay attempted to stifle his breathing as he crept deeper into the dungeons. As he pressed his back against the wall, an action that had become habit every time he found himself needing to round a corner, he thought he heard the smallest shuffle of noise coming from nearby, and he froze.

After watching the walls for shadows and seeing none, Kay shrugged and scolded himself for dawdling, and just when he was about to take a step out…

An unseen force wrapped around his neck, and his stomach swooped as he was propelled backwards and _upwards_ so that his feet no longer touched the ground. The back of his head hit the stone hard enough that he saw stars, and after his sword dropped to the ground, Kay briefly brushed at the invisible force around his throat that held him to the wall, and he released a little choking cough at the pressure behind it.

That's when he saw Merlin, his eyes blazing with a furious, enraged gold and his hand hovering before him, with a stony mask set in place.

It—it was _back._ The magic, it was back.

Kay, closing his eyes and sending a thankful prayer to the gods he once shunned, slumped with relief. It seemed that the antidote wasn't needed at all. _He _wasn't needed at all.

Let Merlin do with him what he will. All that mattered was that _he _was alright. He was fine, and he could stop Morgana. He could stop this madness.

Everything was going to be alright; he had faith that Camelot and Escetia both would be safe, and he'd accept whatever fate that Merlin chose for him.

His life, would now and always, be in the hands of the warlock. He knew that now, just as well as he knew that there was no one he could look up to as highly as he could Merlin.

For some reason, the pressure on his throat slackened, and he was almost amused at the delayed cries of Merlin's companions.

Kay could feel their accusing glares boring into him, and the coward in him refused to let him open his eyes to _see_ the glares.

However, when he felt the point of his sword pressing none-too-gently into his chest, Kay opened his eyes to see Merlin, whose head was gently cocked to the side and whose stormy eyes, lingering with gold, were unreadable as they studied him, before he looked to his Prince.

His King.

Arthur wasn't looking at him. He was looking to Merlin…because the King of Camelot knew just as well as Kay did that it was _his _call as to whether he lived or died, and when Merlin didn't acknowledge the inquiring glance from his King, Arthur's sapphire eyes, filled with hurt and rage that was absent in the warlock's own countenance, flickered to him.

"Give me one good reason—" Arthur said, breaking the silence. His tone was frigid with unforgiving ice. "—why I shouldn't run you through. Or let Merlin blow your head to oblivion."

There was _no_ reason. There was absolutely _nothing _he could offer Arthur, Lot, Gwaine, Percival, or Lancelot. There was _nothing _he could offer Merlin to make up for what he had done. The antidote? That wasn't a bid to get into their good graces, but it didn't matter anymore anyway. His magic was back. It didn't matter.

There were no words he could use, and it'd be foolish to try.

At his lack of response, Arthur dug the sword a little deeper into his chest, but Merlin finally spoke in an otherworldly voice that Kay could only describe as _powerful._

"_Wait."_

Kay hardly noticed that the King, who quirked an eyebrow at his friend but did not question, lowered the sword, and his teal eyes locked with Merlin's as the warlock took a step toward him.

It was painful to look at him and remember. It was painful to remember the dead look in Merlin's eyes when his magic was no longer there. It was painful to remember the rotted gold there when he'd managed to overcome the poison in the torture chambers. It was painful to remember his screams, to remember the spiritless voice, to remember the Knights' and King's hidden looks of distress, dread, and horror to see him—their Court Sorcerer, their brother, their friend…so sick, so hurt…

How could he have even _dared _try to crush Merlin's soul? Those insolent retorts, the kindness, the goodness, the teasing, the bravery, the beauty that was his magic…

Everything that made Merlin the man he'd die for had almost been lost. Because of him.

How could he have betrayed the selfless man who saved his life? How could he have betrayed his old friend, who he might have envied but who he couldn't possibly bear to see dead because of all the good memories he had of him…because of all the training they had done together and all the wild things they had done together? How could he have betrayed his cousin, whose surliness had begun to grow on him and whose grimness had once made him jokingly say that it would become a life-goal to make the man laugh? How could he have betrayed his countries, both of which had family, friends, and memories glorious, wonderful, and life-changing?

How could that have just _slipped _away from him? All the warmth and goodness in his life…

Kay would face the consequences of his actions.

Merlin's eyes danced about his face, and to his shock, he saw them soften with compassion and… _forgiveness?_ before the warlock reached up to the string holding the amulet that his father had given him.

And gently removed it from his neck.

In response to Merlin's strange action, Lot's eyebrows shot up so high that Kay couldn't see them any longer, and the Knights exchanged baffled looks and shrugs. Arthur, on the other hand—his eyes widened with understanding, and he immediately shot his gaze from the amulet to Merlin's face.

After a moment of eerie silence and stillness, the warlock's eyes flicked to Arthur, and he muttered confidently with a hint of joy and triumph, "I was right. The silver tarnished is clean once more."

_Bloody hell, Merlin_, a small, fond, amused part—the part that yearned to live for the love of Camelot and its people, the part he assumed died when Uther shipped him off to Escetia, the part that recognized the knight he had forgotten he'd always be, the part that wanted, more than anything, to go _back _to Camelot, at least one more time, to serve again under what he now saw where the greatest men of their age—of Kay chided. _Could you be any more cryptic?_

There was never a more evident sign of how much the young Pendragon had changed when the King, who absorbed the statement and who _knew, _somehow, what it was Merlin meant, nodded once with complete and utter trust in the warlock's judgment.

"Lot?" Merlin whispered inquiringly.

The Escetian King, who had been looking between the three alternatively, hesitated and then nodded as well.

And it was so that Kay was lowered to the ground.

The pressure was released from his neck, and after Kay blinked up at Merlin in confusion, the warlock gave him a small smile.

"Merlin—" Gwaine started warningly.

Lancelot immediately hushed him with a fierce glare.

Ignoring both of the knights and handing back the amulet, Merlin said, "It appears that you have found something."

The ex-knight wasn't exactly sure how to respond to that—the statement seemed to be mysteriously loaded with more meaning than he could possibly comprehend—and, squeezing the amulet in his hand, he ended up blurting, his voice cracking with the weight of his emotions, "_It's back_."

"Perceptive of you," Merlin quipped sarcastically, causing Arthur to snort.

Wordlessly, Kay slipped the vial of antidote from his pocket and rolled it around in his fingers. "You were right, Merlin. About everything."

"I'm generally right in these cases."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Don't be giving him a big head, Kay," he muttered.

"Oh, don't worry about me, Arthur. My head can never be as big as yours, so I do believe it's you we have to worry about."

"I think it's _Kay _we have to worry about," Gwaine muttered angrily.

"You have nothing to fear from me," Kay whispered.

"You betrayed us," Lot said emotionlessly.

"And I—I know that I can't say anything to change that—what I have done. 'Sorry' doesn't cut it, does it?" he joked weakly.

"You're damn well right, it doesn't," Percival muttered.

"It doesn't make much of a difference now," Kay said, looking from the small object to Merlin and holding it out, "but I want you to take it."

Even the Knights, who seemed least accepting of Merlin's decision not to kill him on the spot, started with shock, and understanding the gesture for what it was—something more powerful than words—hesitant gratitude shone in their eyes.

It was clear that taking Merlin's magic had hurt them just as much as it did Merlin.

"It does make a difference," Merlin disagreed, accepting the vial. An impish grin spread across his lips, and he teased, as though nothing had happened between them, "It proves that the pheasant no longer follows the step of any peacock."

In those words, forgiveness.

It was forgiveness, and after looking at his warlock with something stronger than love and pride, Arthur, too, found it in himself to show a sign of forgiveness when he directed the hint of a smile at his ex-knight.

No, it wasn't so much forgiveness in the eyes of the King as it was a promise that he'd be given a second chance. A second chance...accompanied by a warning.

_You hurt him again... if he so much as frowns because of something you've said or done, you die._

It wasn't necessary, the warning. He knew.

Kay didn't deserve the second chance or the forgiveness, but he wouldn't complain.

"No," Kay said with a growing smile and tears beading in his eyes, "But I'd follow the steps of a Merlin any day."

* * *

><p>AN: And there it is, ladies and gentleman! Cheesiest ending line to date. :D<p>

I just want to get it out there: I'm PROUD of Kay. I'm so proud. I've always said that Arthur's speech in PMMP has been my proudest accomplishment, but now... I've never been more proud of anything that I've written. Well, I shouldn't say I've written him as much as I should say he's written _himself, _but he's - he's grown so much from the deceptive, ruthless and totally and irreparably EVIL man I had once wanted him to be.

So the purpose of that rant? Some advice: don't be afraid of OCs. Don't be afraid to try to experiment with them in your writing. :)

I want to thank Tegan, Ocean, and Ryne in particular for their support. I was, truthfully, TERRIFIED to write Kay again after so long, but I don't regret it.

Forgive my mistakes. Oz out.


	21. In the Face of Fear

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: This chapter is dedicated to Ryne. Without her input, the first 2,000 words of this chapter would have been a lot choppier and a lot less meaningful than they are now. In fact, a large section of those first 2,000 words was inspired by her advice, so…huge hugs and smiles to you, Ryne, for being so awesome! Also, a big thank you to all of you for reviewing, following, and favorite'ing. You guys rock. :D Kudos and love to my friend Wil on the Heart of Camelot for creating the new story cover for this fic. And another special thank you to those who gently reminded me to get updating. Again. ;P

Updates in the life of Oz: I'm enjoying s5 A LOT (particularly enjoyed the latest episode), college is going well, THANKSGIVING is around the corner, and I have found my new writing soundtrack in the form of Zelda music (WIND WAKER!). :P My Muse seemed to prefer it to my usual 80s rock while writing this chapter.

This chapter... There were a lot of loose ends from the last chapter I needed to tie up (because they can't just go 'huh, Kay's back! Yay! Moving on!' because that'd be unrealistic), so unfortunately, the Merlin-Morgana battle has been put off. Again. But, there's a BAMF build-up (if you could call it that?) and PLENTY of angst and bromance - of both the Arthur-Kay and Arthur-Merlin variety.

Enjoy:

* * *

><p><strong>In the Face of Fear<strong>

If he had been any normal person, he probably would have been giving Merlin the same exact look that Kay, Lot, and the Knights were giving him.

But Arthur wasn't any normal person, and when the warlock's blue eyes had flickered to his King, the very windows of his soul borne wide for Arthur to see, to know…so that he could _understand_—when Merlin had removed that protective amulet …

Even if Merlin hadn't unobtrusively brushed his hand against his own, he would have known the action quite well for what it was, and his eyes had swiveled immediately to Merlin's face to gauge his ultimate verdict even before the warlock shared his _aura_-sight with him.

However…

With the memory of Merlin, broken in his arms, tears pouring from his _wrong_ eyes, and heartbreaking sobs wracking his chest, with the memory of Merlin kneeling before Kay and retorting defiantly, loyally, and darkly, with the memory of a bleeding Lot hanging from the ceiling, with the memory of whips and daggers and sneers and accusations and hopelessness and dread and monsters and fear…

Even when he trusted Merlin's gift and Merlin's word, could he have ever truly believed that the ex-knight had fully returned to himself and was well aware of his sins if his Court Sorcerer hadn't _shown_ him?

Even after coming to the conclusion that Kay had been under the influence of Morgana's drug and even with Merlin's confidence that Kay couldn't truly be blamed for his actions and that he had every right to be allowed a second chance, it was hard.

It was _so _hard to believe, as Merlin seemed to believe.

Standing there—with Kay pinned to a wall, looking defeated and yet full of resolution, completely ready to accept whatever judgment was passed…

It was still impossible for Arthur to look upon his once-friend, remember the evil he had committed and the approaching battle that he had helped pioneer, and believe that he was worthy of anything more than death.

Because upon seeing Kay again after all that he had done and said, Arthur's fury was lit like a bonfire, and as his heart stung with the keen bite of betrayal, bile clawed up his throat, and unshed tears burned in his eyes.

He was angry with Kay—for doing the things he did. For submitting so easily to Morgana…and for confusing him by breaking free and by _facing _them when the wounds, the very ones that his hand had inflicted, were still so fresh. He was angry (now, _that_ would be an understatement) with Morgana—for being mad enough to create that damn poison in the first place, for hurting Merlin and for torturing him in mind and body, for daring to strut her armies through his kingdom for a _second _time, and for wearing away at the barriers of a man who hadn't realized just how _good _he was.

Above all, he was angry with himself—for not realizing how lost and troubled Kay was, for not being able to protect Kay from himself and for being a part of the reason he needed to be protected at all, for not being able to keep his friends safe from someone he had considered a friend, for not being able to have done _anything_ to prevent all this pain and terror…

Of course Merlin knew. Of course Merlin could sense Arthur's troubled wrath, and he could see how _sick _he was of the eternal storm cloud of evil that always hovered about him. He could _feel _the tense, coiled muscles, and he could hear beyond the glacial bite in his King's voice. If he hadn't sensed all those things, the warlock would not have removed that amulet to prove to Arthur that he shouldn't dwell on what Kay had done, and he wouldn't have felt the need to show Arthur _why_.

Otherwise, despite what he might have tried to convince himself in the cell after Merlin regained his hold on his magic, Arthur knew he would never have seen Kay as someone who deserved his, Lot's, _Merlin's, _or so much as _anyone's _forgiveness.

But of course, Merlin had understood, and therefore, Merlin had known that his King had needed to see what he saw.

"I was right," Merlin said brightly. "The silver tarnished is clean once more."

And Arthur saw it.

It was silver, but not the pale-white silver of freshly polished armor or the silver of a virgin sword. It wasn't the silver of coins or of royal chalices.

It was the silver of a wolf's pelt, and it was as though dusk and dawn's grey shades fused into a glittering color representing the perfect balance between light and dark, virtue and vice, fear and bravery, insecurity and self-assurance. Arthur could see where the balance had been disrupted and where the silver had been tarnished. However, he could also see the netted matrix of newfound purpose and identity overlaying the scars, and Arthur could see that that precarious balance had been restored.

And most importantly, the King understood that it would _remain_ that way.

It was clear where Kay's loyalties truly lay, and Arthur's heart swelled with hope…only to have it ferociously popped by a needle of regret moments later.

It might be over. The Kay he grew up with and trained with might be back with them, but it would never change the fact that Arthur's memory of him would be forever tainted by the events of these past few days. It wouldn't change the fact that every time he looked at Kay, the memory of his contorted, wicked grin would be fresh and piercing in his mind's eye, and there would be no ridding of the memory of that grin or of the dark shadow of pure hatred that appeared all too real in his teal eyes. It wouldn't change the fact that every time he heard Kay speak, he'd hear the smug glee and the murderous whispers, and he'd hear the disdainful way in which he spat _Pendragon_.

Above all, however, Arthur knew that he wouldn't be able to stop himself from placing his body between Merlin's and Kay's at all times...or from diligently following the ex-knight's every step and movement with a gaze bearing a hint of suspicion that could never truly transform into one of trust and acceptance.

It was a bittersweet feeling to realize that he could have his childhood friend back…and yet would never be able to see him as that same friend ever again.

If he ever _would_ see him again, Arthur realized dully.

For where would Kay belong after everything that he had done? He tortured both the king of Escetia, his _cousin_, who had trusted him and who had appointed him as his _right-hand _advisor, _and_ the King of Camelot, his lifelong friend, who had been his brother-in-arms and who had saved his neck on _countless_ occasions both on and off the field.

Kay had betrayed them both, and he and Lot would not forget the pain—physical, emotional, and mental—that he had induced. They would not forget the danger that he put both of their kingdoms in nor would they forget what he once met to them...

If—_when _Morgana was brought to justice, where would Kay _go_? Where _could _he go? What would he do? In Escetia, Lot would look upon him with just as much suspicion as he would be looked upon in Camelot. Of course, the people of Escetia were in the dark about the recent power-ploy and fall of their hero, and the people of Camelot were just as unknowledgeable about how one of their own had been seduced by the witch and how he had tried to bring them down from the inside…

But when both of the monarchs would be watching him with a hawk's narrow-eyed diligence and when there would be a very noticeable, chilly distance between them—how long that innocent ignorance would last, Arthur didn't know.

And how long would Kay be able to take it? How long would he be able to survive with the sad eyes—all of the eyes wishing that they could portray anything but distrust—following him, with the regret crushing him, and with the memory of these days constantly being reawakened? How long would it take before the remorse fades and his goodwill turns sour and bitter when that distance ended up as frigid as ever and when that distance never became bridged?

Kay was never one to sit on the sidelines, and inactivity was his bane. In time, the awkwardness, the edginess—the bad blood between them would never be removed unless…

_He was going to have to talk to him_. Dammit, if Arthur nodded, if this was how it was going to be, he was going to have to _talk _to him. Right then. Right there.

He didn't know if he could do it. He didn't know if he could contain himself enough to keep it from escalating to blows… because it would be _far _too satisfying to send at least _one_ fist sailing to hit that smug, proud jawline...

_But you must learn to listen as well as you fight_, Merlin had once advised him years ago.

A surge of guilt washed through him. It was his fault. _He _was one of the direct causes of Kay's betrayal, and he was one of the reasons Kay had lost his way. The _very_ least he could do to begin to narrow the gaping crevice of uncertainty and misunderstanding between them was give Kay that chance—the opportunity to be heard and the opportunity to redeem himself.

And suddenly, he felt ashamed.

Why worry when the _aura _didn't lie? Why worry when Morgana was the one he _should _be worried about? Why worry…when Merlin _wasn't _worried?

A small part of him almost began a mental rant about the idiot's lack of self-preservation, but suddenly, Merlin's voice was chiding him, _Just…don't be a prat_.

It was funny that he had once looked upon those words with nothing more than mocking amusement and puzzlement at his wacky manservant's insistence that he give him some passionate advice when he was recovering from the Questing Beast's bite.

_Now _look at him.

Of course, now he understood why Merlin's eyes had glittered with an unusual brightness that night and why there had been a waver in his gentle voice, but more than that—it might be a fond joke between the pair of them and a verbal memento of the very moment they met, but in the end, no matter the severity or ridiculousness of the circumstance, he would never repeat a piece of Merlin's advice to himself more often than he did that one.

_Just…don't be a prat_.

After returning his attention to his warlock, who waited for his opinion with a knowing, compassionate gleam in his eyes, and after scanning his face, Arthur nodded once.

When it came down to it, a second chance was a new beginning, and he trusted that not a single one of them would let it go to waste. Not Merlin, not him, and most certainly not Kay.

So, he trusted, and despite the scars and healing wounds, he knew that he wouldn't regret it.

And in that one nod—another pebble fell into Destiny's pond and sent a new ring of gently cascading ripples outward to direct the course of change...

The light, tingling brush of Merlin's magic enveloped his mind, and the warlock's eyes smiled when he, as though reading the King's mind, said solely to him, _You won't regret it, Arthur._

From the corner of Arthur's vision, he saw one of his Knights—Gwaine, of course—shuffle in indignation, but surprisingly enough, he did not say a word. Instead, after throwing a look of disbelief in the King and warlock's direction, he glared heatedly at Kay, who did not seem to be aware in the slightest that he was on the receiving end of such a nasty look. Percival and Lancelot, on the other hand, were standing stiff with indecision, their hands unconsciously rising to the place on their hip where a sword hilt usually hung and their eyes darting back and forth between the Arthur, Kay, and Merlin.

"Lot?" Merlin suddenly whispered out loud, diverting his attention to the Escetian King.

Lot's calculative eyes slowly swept across the group, but when his gaze crossed with Arthur's, the foreign King suddenly did a double take. Arthur followed his line of vision to see that he had become fixated on the forgotten sword in his hand.

In the excitement of the moment, neither he nor Lot (apparently) had noticed the long streak of crimson smeared across the blade.

Within the span of a second, Lot's countenance lightened in surprise and then darkened in suspicion, and after he clenched his jaw and set his face in a stoic mask, he hesitated only briefly and finally nodded.

It took Arthur a moment to realize that they couldn't be sure whose blood had stained Kay's sword.

Or whose blood had stained his clothing.

When Kay was slowly and gently lowered to the floor and when Merlin's hand fell lax to his side, Gwaine, who had been eyeing the blood on the sword and on the clothing—there was quite a bit of it, Arthur realized numbly—with open distrust, began to protest, "Merlin—"

The warlock ignored him and returned the protective amulet back to a wide-eyed and stunned Kay. "It appears," Merlin said, "that you have found something."

And Arthur watched Kay struggle for words as confusion, relief, self-loathing, and uncertainty combated for dominance.

As a result of that strange combination of complicated emotion, all that Kay could manage to choke out was a witty, _"It's back_."

Despite the lack of volume in his voice, Arthur heard the heartbreaking _joy_ in his voice loud and clear, and the sheen glistening in his eyes spoke volumes enough.

Merlin rolled his eyes and said sarcastically, "Perceptive of you."

A snort escaped Arthur before he could stop it.

Even Kay's lips twitched upward, and instead of responding, he lowered his eyes, searched his pockets….

And pulled out a familiar vial of swirling pearl liquid.

"Is that…?" Lancelot breathed from behind him.

Rolling the vial tenderly between his fingers, Kay looked up once again and finally said softly in a weighty tone, "You were right, Merlin. About everything."

"I'm generally right in these cases," his Court Sorcerer deadpanned.

Without a second thought, Arthur found himself responding, "Don't be giving him a big head, Kay."

Grinning cheekily, Merlin said with a dismissive hand gesture, "Oh, don't worry about me, Arthur. My head can never be as big as yours, so I do believe it's you we have to worry about."

"I think it's _Kay _we have to worry about," Gwaine growled, stepping forward.

Kay did not back down upon hearing the accusation ringing in the rash Knight's words, but a haggard shadow passed across his handsome, guileless face, and his eyes aged and dulled under the strain of burden he now carried and would carry for the rest of his life. "You have nothing to fear from me," he whispered with a surprising level of confidence and strength in his voice.

_That _was the Kay Arthur knew. No matter what he had done…he would _always _face the consequences of his actions without fear and without a single falter. Even as a lad—there were countless times that he would take full blame when the pair of them got caught trying to steal cakes from the kitchens …

Withstanding a lecture and scolding from Camelot's cook had been more terrifying than withstanding one from Uther Pendragon himself. And as Merlin could testify, it _still _was.

"You betrayed us," Lot said grimly, wrenching Arthur back to the present.

As if to hide his regret from them, Kay's eyes closed, and he exhaled slowly. "And I—I know that I can't say anything to change that—what I have done." His eyes flickered open and gleamed with a hint of dark humor, "'Sorry' doesn't cut it, does it?"

"You're damn well right, it doesn't," Percival muttered.

Kay winced, and pursing his lips, he unclenched his fingers to reveal the vial of antidote once again. "It doesn't make much of a difference now," he said, looking up at Merlin apologetically and determinedly at the same time, "but I want you to take it."

Kay was wrong.

In Arthur's opinion, there was nothing less, and nothing more, he could have done to prove how much he regretted his actions…or to show that his heart was pledged to them—to _Merlin_—once more. He braved his guilt—the guilt that Arthur knew seeped from him like an interminable river—and he braved his self-loathing. He braved facing _them _again…just to make sure that Merlin received that antidote.

And even though it might have been a wasted journey, the fact he gave it to Merlin anyway…

"It does make a difference," Merlin disagreed passionately, tucking the vial into his own pocket. An impish smile crept on his face, and he added, "It proves that the pheasant no longer follows the step of any peacock."

There it was. Even veiled behind a jest, his golden heart was exposed for all to see, and it would never cease to amaze Arthur…what a truly wonderful person Merlin was. To have forgiven Kay as he did—

And it was both somewhat amusing and damn inspiring to see Kay _realizing _that. He might have been starting to see it before—well, after meeting Merlin for the second time in Camelot and after facing the Crocotta with him, it would have been impossible _not _to—even under the influence of the Lybb.

No, this was something _more_. More binding, more real, and more significant, and with the witch's hold on him shattered, it was bound to be even _more _powerful than even that.

For the first time, the true depth of Merlin's compassion and friendship was completely and beautifully _clear_ to Kay, and the man swallowed roughly, gratitude and a _fierce _promise shining from his eyes.

Arthur's features softened, and he lowered his chin ever so slightly when Kay's eyes caught his own.

Kay sobered upon seeing the mild optimism and protective warning in his King's expression, but when the ex-knight subtly inclined his head, his own message became clear to Arthur.

_I am not worth this chance, but I will neither let you nor him down. _

After they broke eye contact, Kay turned back to Merlin and whispered something that made the warlock laugh and clap him on the shoulder, and blinking in numb awe at Merlin's genial gesture, Kay's hesitant smile steadied and grew.

"That is a lot of blood," Merlin stated suddenly. Looking Kay over with the same aptitude his mentor possessed, he asked, "Are you injured?"

The ex-knight frowned in confusion and then looked down at his clothes. Making a disgusted noise, crinkling his nose, and appearing as though it was the first time he genuinely realized how bad he looked, Kay shook his head and said absentmindedly, "Just a graze—it's nothing. Most of the blood is Alvarr's."

Lot flinched at the name, but at the same time, he was the first to repeat, "_Alvarr? _The rogue sorcerer?"

Kay's face darkened with an unreadable emotion, and grimacing and shuddering simultaneously, he said, "Yes. He's dead."

"You killed him?" Gwaine asked bluntly.

"In our line of work, that generally is how one becomes dead, Gwaine," Arthur drawled mockingly.

"Thank you, Arthur, for that lovely piece of intuition. You know full well what I meant."

After shaking his head furiously during the two Camelotians' exchange, Kay leaned over to pull one of his hidden daggers from his boot, and ignoring the immediate wariness that some of his companions portrayed at the sight of a weapon in his hand, he said, "Does it matter? Because it wasn't just him. Morgana _knows_. Somehow. She obviously had this well thought out, prepared for something this, and has had me watched."

"It won't be long now," Merlin said, his tone clipped with sudden urgency and seriousness. "When Morgana arrives, all will go to hell, and I'd prefer that you have your swords at hand when that happens."

Kay froze, and he choked, "She's coming."

Before any of them could respond, the ginger-haired man barked a humorless laugh. "I suppose I should be disappointed in myself for being surprised to hear that. I could've guessed from the scream…or from the actions of the men who attacked me."

"How many attacked you?" Merlin asked thoughtfully.

"Three," Kay answered bitterly. "The others did not give a damn, but I expect there're more non-drugged men of hers that are around."

Merlin scowled and groaned, "Just how many men does she _have?_"

Nostrils flaring, Arthur realized that Merlin had a good point, and he also realized that, in all his time here, he had been so focused on Merlin and on Kay and on Morgana's direct threat to Camelot, his wife, and his people that he had never wondered about that little detail.

Remembering that little detail now sent a cool trickle of unease down his spine.

Just how many men _did_ the witch have behind her? It must be a significant amount, Arthur assumed. If she was being _this_ bold and was feeling confident enough to go forth with this complicated plan of hers...

The massive following she must have—Arthur shook his head. Was it really all that large? Knowing Morgana, she might have quite a number on her side, true. She would need a large number to lay siege on Camelot. _But_ because he knew that the whole plan was centered on Merlin and her enslavement of his magic and because he knew that she must have been depending on his power to see through her plan to its end, it couldn't possibly be as large as he might fear.

Or so he hoped.

"I must have put a dozen to sleep already," Merlin continued.

Despite the playfulness, Arthur, who was well aware of his warlock's tendency to hide his true emotion, pain, and fatigue in his misguided attempt to spare others grief and anxiety, detected that certain _something_ in his tone. Narrowing his eyes, the King studied the younger man, and he observed the brief weariness that passed across Merlin's features, the paleness of his skin, and the smudges under his lively eyes—smudges that seemed somewhat darker than they had minutes ago and that looked far too much like bruises for Arthur's liking.

The way he held himself too—it was barely noticeable to the untrained eye, and to those who didn't know Merlin, they might have been fooled.

Arthur, on the other hand, knew Merlin, so he _did_ notice…and so of course he wasn't deceived when the idiot smiled as though nothing was wrong.

Even though Merlin was doing his best _not _to show it, it was clear that he was far more exhausted than he let on, and concern pricked at the King's heart.

It must have hit him hard and fast after the initial exhilaration of recovering his magic and using it again, but all the same, he couldn't let him take on Morgana. Even with that all-powerful stone of his. Not in this state. Not with his magic still reconciling itself after being ripped away from its master. And certainly not when Arthur was going to make damn well sure that he wouldn't lose him to _her._

Arthur opened his mouth, but before he could say a word, Kay shrugged and answered Merlin's previous question, "I can only assume she wanted Escetia under her thumb just as much as she did Camelot…and I expect," he added with a hint of dry humor, "that she wanted to ensure that you didn't escape."

Snorting, Merlin gestured to the group and joked, "Well, we can see how well that turned out for her."

"And we should be taking advantage of that now," Lancelot reminded them, looking over his shoulder edgily.

"Instead of standing about in the middle corridor like roosting ducks?" Merlin nodded and started to move. "Good plan. We need to get moving."

"Merlin," Arthur began.

Quirking his dark brow in question, Merlin faced the King, and after scanning his friend's face, which was wan but set, and after recalling _everything_—the undercurrent of power in his eyes, the steel in his tone, the determination radiating from every pore—that had been apparent when he first suggested and worried that Merlin might not be well enough to face Morgana…

Instead of calling him out on his tiredness, Arthur drew him aside and whispered to him in his 'I'm-the-King-of-Camelot-and-though-that-means-nothing-to-you-Merlin-you-had-better-answer-me-truthfully-because-I'm-also-your-friend' tone, "Are you alright?"

The animated light in his stormy blue eyes faded, and pursing his lips, Merlin allowed a weak, sheepish smile to twitch at his lips at Arthur's tone. However, after they exchanged an understanding, knowing look—a look in which both Merlin and Arthur knew exactly what the other was attempting (and failing) to hide—Merlin flashed a cheeky grin and admitted indirectly, "But I will be, Arthur."

All Arthur could see fit to do in response was clap his friend supportively on the shoulder, and noticing Kay watching them from behind Merlin, the King's fond smile became less genuine.

Without looking over his shoulder, Merlin guessed shrewdly, "You're going to talk to him."

Arthur exhaled a small sigh, which was answer enough for the warlock, who continued, "None of this was your fault, Arthur. Remember that."

"Only if you do the same."

When Merlin, smirking fondly, stepped away, he looked back down the passageway they had been following and then down the passageway Kay had come from. "Right, um, Kay, where'd you hide away this lot's armor and weapons? I doubt you'd leave them in the guestrooms for servants to find when we're all supposed to be…elsewhere."

Kay went green, and he answered slowly, "Right off the—those chambers…their stuff will be in the room to the left."

"So we need to backtrack a little," Percival remembered.

"Why do all these ancient secret underground dungeons have to be so damn maze-like? Turns and twists—it never ends," Gwaine grumbled as they started to retrace their steps.

"Since when have you—never mind," Lancelot amended quickly, noticing the diabolical smile on the other man's face. "I don't think I want to know."

Arthur snickered, but after hearing Merlin hush them and after seeing Lot, a curious expression on his face, trot up to talk with him, he and Kay, without a single word, simultaneously hung back and followed at a small distance behind.

Kay fiddled at the hilt of his dagger as they walked in uncomfortable silence.

Just as Arthur was awkwardly scrambling for something, _anything _to say, so that they could get this over with, his childhood friend broke the silence between with a single sentence that chilled the King to his core.

"It's surprising how little I actually remember of it."

That was _not _what Arthur had expected at all, and when his eyebrows disappeared into his hairline, Kay caught sight of his surprised expression and chewed on his lip as though unsure how to continue.

"I might sound mad," Kay finally said in the same detached voice, his eyes somber with age, "but I do remember seeing images of eyes and monsters and blood on my hands. I do remember the—the things I had done to you and how—" his tone became thick with revulsion "—how it felt to do those things, and I remember the details of Morgana's plan, as was expected of me as her messenger, and—" his face contorted in effort "—and… all else—is a bit of a blur. My time in Camelot is somewhat less fuzzy than my time here. I expect that's because I wasn't as drugged on the road…though I wouldn't doubt that one of those men in my party—no, there's no doubt it was Alan. Alan was more loyal to Morgana than me, obviously, and in retrospect, he probably had slipped me slipped me some. On the road, however, it would have been impossible to do so without being caught."

It was almost as though Kay, whose eyes remained fixated ahead, was hardly aware of the King's presence as he spoke, and despite his horror at what Kay was revealing to him of his experience and how _emotionlessly _it was being said, Arthur couldn't help but be mesmerized at his words.

"But yes, for the most part—a blur. Except," Kay said, finally looking at Arthur and giving him a small smile, "Whenever Merlin managed to get under my skin, whenever his words hit me in the right way, whenever he _did _something as only Merlin would do—everything was clearer.

"That's when things felt wrong and when I began hallucinating and when everything started to unravel in my mind, and then Morgana…she came and visited me—she told me she sent the Crocotta—"

For the first time, Arthur interrupted with an exasperated mutter of, "Of course, she did," to which Kay responded with a light smirk that was, to Arthur's unexpected pleasure, quite like one of old.

"And that's also when I started to sense it—or taste it, rather—the drug. I was breaking free and seeing more…with Merlin's help and with his words and accusations ringing in my ears, and it was frankly terrifying. To see all that had been done as though I was a shade trapped _outside _of my body and at the same time feel as though my body had been taken over by someone who was but wasn't me. And to be aware of it and to be unable to stop it…"

Disturbed, Arthur began, "Kay—"

Grinning sheepishly, Kay chuckled darkly and interceded, "I don't want your sympathy, Arthur. That's not why I told you this. Quite honestly, I don't even understand how you, Merlin—anyone—can so much as look me after what I've done and said, and though I might not remember _exactly_ what I said in those damned chambers—" his voice and teal eyes hardened "—I know the gist, and I know I said some things that—I would rather _die_ than say again of my own free will."

Kay's honest teal eyes locked with Arthur's, and a lungful of air that he'd been neglecting to release for some time was forcibly exhaled in a steady stream.

"I have forsworn our code, and I have lost any right to my title as a knight of Camelot by committing the treason I did," Kay said, "but if you could take the word of a traitor as true, I swear to you, Arthur. Camelot is my home, and I love it and its people. Being there again…I—" Kay bit his lip and took a shaky breath.

As Kay struggled to compose himself, Arthur said quietly, "I understand."

Teal eyes flashed to Arthur's, and he said sadly, "You don't."

Arthur's brow furrowed, but before he could protest, Kay waved a weary hand. "No, I don't mean it like that. What I mean is…it doesn't make any _difference_ that I was under the drug's influence because…all the time, it was still _me_. Albeit at my most vulnerable and weak—when I was hopeless, angry, and lost. The drug intensified all the hatred in my heart, and just because I was angry and power-hungry and craving attention, I endangered Camelot and was _happy _to do it."

Arthur swallowed and said, "Morgana took advantage of you. That is what she does. My father and I loved her, and she took advantage of our blindness and twisted us around her little finger. Everyone makes mistakes, Kay."

"Mistakes as large as this one?" Kay scoffed. "I doubt that."

"Merlin and I have made our fair share of mistakes," Arthur disagreed. "And besides, I know you never would have acted on that hatred…if it had not been for me and my arrogance. A lot of things my father and I neglected—"

"_Don't_," Kay growled fiercely. "Didn't Merlin just tell you not to blame yourself for this?"

For a moment, the King spluttered, but then a small smirk graced his face, "You eavesdropped on us?"

Kay snorted. "Don't tell me you believe that Merlin _isn't_ eavesdropping on this conversation at this very second."

And quite honestly, even though it did not occur to him until that moment, it did not surprise Arthur in the slightest when Merlin looked back over his shoulder at them with a mischievous glint in his blue-gold eyes.

Smiling fondly, Kay continued, "_I _don't blame you, Arthur. I might have at one point—when I was feeling sorry for myself and was looking for someone else to blame…like the coward I am."

And suddenly, everything was alright. The chasm that Arthur feared would remain between them was _gone_. They understood each other, and within no time, the trust and forgiveness would follow. In fact, watching Kay smile at the back of Merlin's head, hearing the warmth in his tone when he talked about him—he could relate, and he knew that Kay wouldn't touch a single hair on the warlock's head again.

And if Arthur could see that loyalty so clearly, there was absolutely nothing left to forgive….because he understood better than anyone.

There was nothing quite like realizing that there's a person you would fight and gladly die for. That there's a person you would trust with your own life. And that there's no one else you'd rather fight side-by-side with.

Merlin had held Kay's life in his hands. Merlin had directly saved him once from the Crocotta, but more importantly, he had saved Kay falling any deeper into the pit of revenge, hatred, and darkness that the twisted witch had dug for him. He was the force that helped break Kay free, the light that guided him back to his senses, and the judge that determined if he deserved a second chance to live.

Merlin was not only Kay's savior but also his shame and his redemption, and Arthur's heart softened.

"Kay," the King said in a serious tone, "to have survived what you did, to have been driven to the brink of madness… no coward could endure that."

The older knight's eyes glistened with building tears, and Arthur continued, "A coward trembles in the face of fear. A brave man accepts his fear as a part of him and faces it head-on."

Kay stared at the King for a few moments before a tear finally leaked from his eye. He brushed it away in embarrassment and joked, "I see you've been talking to Merlin."

Chuckling, Arthur noticed that an impish grin was spreading across Merlin's face, which was turned ever so slightly in their direction. "He does rub off on you after awhile," he admitted, "but for all his wisdom, he still manages to be an idiot. It baffles me."

Merlin's grin just broadened, and it was easy enough for Arthur to imagine the warlock's retort.

"And Kay," the King continued. "I hope you know that everything that happened here…is strictly between us. Camelot will welcome you home and will be proud to have you again."

After pausing for a heartbeat, Kay said sincerely, "You have changed."

Hiding a growing flush—he had finally gotten used to sharing moments like this with Merlin and Gwen, but with _Kay, _who had always been his competition on and off the field, who had wrestled in the dirt with him, and who had done countless of reckless and stupid boyish activities with him, it was _strange_—Arthur murmured, "So I've been told."

"I mean it, Wart (1)."

Up ahead, Merlin stumbled.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Nice job, Kay."

The devious smile completely contradicted Kay's innocent wide-eyed expression. "What?"

"I do believe I requested that you never call me that again."

"And I do believe that the key word in that sentence is 'requested.'"

"Look what you've done now," Arthur said, catching sight of Merlin's shoulders quivering with contained laughter. "He's never going to let me live it down."

"Hey, it really isn't my fault that I could hardly talk when Gaius pulled that molar of mine, and it really isn't my fault that 'Wart' stuck."

"It seemed to have only stuck with _you_."

"Only because I was the one companion of yours that _wasn't_ intimidated by your murderous glares."

Arthur laughed and punched him on the shoulder.

Because all of his worries were unfounded, and it went without being said that the King forgave his misguided knight and was all too happy to do so.

~…~

Whispering a simple spell under his breath, Merlin quickly slipped his way up to the front of the party and gestured to the Knights to leave Arthur and Kay alone.

They understood, and after all three of them shot a look back to the two men with a mixture of confused, wary, and interested expressions on their faces, they did as he asked.

He knew that they were still uneasy about Kay's presence, but for Merlin, it was _relieving _to see him here with them.

No, it was more than that. Back in Camelot, he had seen a little of the selfish man Kay had been and was becoming through the drug's power, but after spending time in his company, Merlin had grown to see past that fault—his arrogance was _exactly _like Arthur's, after all, and they had a rather similar sense of humor—and had seen him as a friend.

It felt _right _having him in Camelot. It felt as though he and Kay had known each other for years and had been just as much destined to become friends as he and the other Knights had been.

And it had stabbed him deep to see this treachery from him. However, after his instincts alerted him to something off and after piecing together the small signs and comparing them to what he had come to know about Kay and his character, it had made no sense. No sense at all. Until he had sensed the poison in his veins, that is.

That was when Merlin had realized that there was hope yet for Kay and that there was every chance that that friend was still _in_ there. Somewhere.

And he was _back, _and Merlin was so grateful that the man hadn't been lost forever in that empty sea of Morgana's making.

A shudder crept up his spine, and bile rose to his throat at the memory of that thick black leech seeping down his throat and infecting him with its nasty magic, and to banish the thought, he focused on the rush of his golden magic under his skin, its eternal flow in his blood and its loving embrace in his mind.

He wondered how it was that he survived even a few seconds without it there.

_Arthur_ was how, and a small smile flickered across his face at the worry that had been apparent in his King's voice moments previously.

He hadn't meant to show it, but of course Arthur would see it. His magic was still adjusting itself after its imprisonment, and it was…off balance. More off balance than a drunken Gwaine was on a dance floor. It felt so _nice _to use it, but after casting a few sleeping spells, Merlin felt his strength draining. Its giddy drunkenness—one moment he had to restrain its over-eagerness (it was like trying to exercise one of Arthur's hounds after a week of being cooped up in the kennels) and then at the next, he had to coax it to the surface (this is when it was the exact _opposite_ of one of Arthur's hounds and when all it wanted to do was purr in Merlin's body and just _stay _there like a content, sleepy kitten).

It was unnaturally tiring.

And quite concerning. If Morgana—

"You remember the way?" Lot suddenly asked him from his left.

Merlin nodded. "Unfortunately," he joked.

Lot frowned and peered at him. "What are you doing?"

For a moment, the warlock quirked his brow in confusion, but then after realizing that even though Kay and Arthur hadn't begun to talk yet, his spell was in effect, he snickered. "Oh, my eyes. I'm sensing the way ahead. Keeping an eye out for Morgana and any others that might be laying in wait around the corner."

This was only in part true, but he wasn't going to admit that the golden hue lingering in his eyes wouldn't be there if that was the _only _reason. Besides, he wasn't going to admit what he was truly doing.

Some might call it eavesdropping, but in Merlin's perspective, he was doing both Arthur and Kay a favor.

The conversation wouldn't have to be held multiple times _his _way.

"Why did you do it?" Lot asked bluntly, averting him from his thoughts.

Behind him, Gwaine pitched in, "That's an answer I'd like to hear."

Merlin's brows rose. "What?"

"Why did you forgive him so easily?" Percival clarified. "And trust him so easily? Even though I know that Dark magic had taken control of his mind, it—how did you just…let it _go_ the way you did? After everything that he had done to you?"

"You didn't hear how you were screaming, Merlin," Lancelot whispered, shivering. "You didn't see how it was to see you—"

Merlin stopped Lancelot from continuing, gold-tinted eyes flashing. "Because it was Morgana's doing. All of it. A good man fell prey to her, as many other good men have. Kay is not to blame. He was her pawn, and that is all. He is free of the Dark magic—he is _back_ to himself, and I am thrilled that there is nothing left of her influence in him. And thus, there is nothing left to forgive."

Festering rage bubbled in his chest, and with his magic becoming riled in response, he found himself hissing, "_She, _on the other hand, was the one who designed the drug. She was the one who manipulated Kay and who nearly destroyed him, us, me—_everything_. She was the one who planned to enslave my mind and my magic, turn me into a mindless weapon, and use me to raze everything I hold dear. She was the one who played us all. She was the one who developed an army and set it to march on Camelot and who dared to think she could make me forget my vows and my loyalty to my kingdom. She was the one who thought it would be a good idea to get me this angry."

And it wasn't until he saw the rather stunned faces of his friends that Merlin realized just how angry he was.

Energy that he had lacked moments before rushed through him. His tone had become as cold, dangerous, and fierce as a winter's blizzard, and with his face contorted into a feral snarl and with the sparks flitting at his fingers, which twitched in anticipation, he could see why they were looking at him that way.

Taking a calming breath to control himself, Merlin smiled sheepishly at them and finished, "What _she _has done is unforgivable."

"Merlin, mate—"

"It isn't about what she has done to _me _personally," the warlock interrupted quietly, feeling a sudden flash of shame at the fact that a part of him _did_ want to seek personal retribution for the emotional torture she had put both him and Arthur through. "It's about what I almost became and what I could have done. It's about her trying to attack the heart of Camelot itself, about her turning Camelot's closest friends into enemies, and about her continued abuse of magic. It has to end."

Judging by the looks on their faces, his words had rekindled their own fury and their own thirst for justice, and after Merlin asked in a far more gentle tone, "Do you understand?", each of them nodded in response.

"We need to be aware of who our true enemies are," Merlin muttered. "Kay is not one of them."

It was then that warlock became aware that Kay and Arthur had begun talking—_finally_—and his head cocked toward them unconsciously.

Gwaine was the first to speak after Merlin's outburst and teased, "Had a bit to get off your chest, didn't you?"

"You have no idea."

"When do you think she'll—" Percival asked.

"I expect she will come to us—in her own terms," Merlin interrupted blandly. "Knowing her as I do, it'll probably make her feel as though she has control of the situation. Now, shush, please. I'm trying to listen."

If the Knight and Lot were at all confused by Merlin's statement, the warlock himself didn't notice, and while the Escetian king fell back with Lancelot, Merlin listened.

And he did so with both horror and ever increasing respect, pride, and satisfaction.

When Kay guessed that he'd been eavesdropping, Merlin turned to flash a grin behind him, and though he found himself smiling a good part of the time at their progress and at their familiar teasing, it wasn't until he heard Kay call Arthur—

He nearly tripped over his own feet in surprise, and Lancelot's hand shot out to grab him before he could fall.

After steadying him, Lancelot asked, "You alright, there?

_Wart? Really?_

Giggles threatened to erupt from his throat, and he bit his lip before managing to answer, "Yeah."

Lancelot didn't look particularly convinced, but he was distracted when Percival teased, "Watch your feet, Merlin."

"You know that advice doesn't work for me," Merlin joked absently.

Upon turning the corner, Merlin recognized the door, and cutting off his spell, his amusement faded, and he announced quietly, "We're here."

It was only then that the raven-haired man realized that they had not stumbled upon a single guard along the way, and he stiffened and hurriedly pushed his senses to the extreme limit to survey the area around them.

"What is it, Merlin?" Arthur asked as he drew level with his shoulder.

"No guards," the warlock muttered.

His companions all frowned, but when Merlin, having found nothing worthy of his suspicion, just shook his head and pushed into the torture chambers, they followed his lead without question.

If truth be told—if he had hesitated a second longer, he probably would have thought too much about what had happened in this room (and what still awaited in this room), and it would have subsequently taken a _lot _more effort to get him to enter the room.

He would be lying if he had said that he wasn't afraid to enter that room again.

And after taking the first step into that room, Merlin felt he had _very _good reason to feel uneasy.

The rankness of the vials standing in their silent vigil from across the room assaulted him, making his magic curdle and hiss through him, and his nose scrunched up in abhorrence. Like demonic, fanged worms crawling over him, attempting to burrow their heads into his skin—even though it did not make a difference in the slightest, Merlin turned his face away instinctively.

It wasn't painful, but the recognition of the witch's Dark magic was not pleasant, and it _was_ enough to make him want to get the _hell _out of that room.

Kay, surprisingly enough, was the one to step in after Arthur, and after inhaling sharply, the man's eyes squeezed shut. When the teal eyes, glazed with blurry memories, flashed open, he and Merlin exchanged a look, and the King, guessing the reason behind the falter in both Merlin's and Kay's stride and behind the pallid color their skin had adopted, glowered with blazing eyes at the offending vials, and squeezed both of his friends' shoulders in reassurance.

"You feel it?" Merlin asked Kay.

Nodding, the ginger-haired man answered, "Yes."

"Do not go near it," Arthur said with a harsh edge in his tone.

"Don't worry," Merlin said shakily. "I don't plan to."

"The room?" Lot asked tensely.

Kay pointed, and mindful of Merlin and Kay's particular discomfort—not a single one of them hadn't scowled and hadn't quaked upon entering that room again—they all skirted the edges of the room until they came to the open threshold that Kay had gestured to.

It rather amused Merlin how quickly the fighting men, grinning like famished wolves about to devour their night's kill, scattered to reclaim their weapons and armor, and after watching them expertly assemble their gear, Merlin, without a second thought, stepped further into the room to assist Arthur.

However, when he absentmindedly picked up one of the pieces of his King's armor, Arthur, whose hair was ruffled from the hauberk (2) he'd just slipped over his head, smirked at him and said, "No need, Merlin."

"Are you sure you can handle it alone, _Wart_?" Merlin teased, folding his arms and feeling rather useless as his friends strapped armor onto their shoulders and forearms.

Scowling, Arthur paused to flash him a deadly glower. "Shut up, Merlin." (3)

Ignoring the snickers from Kay and the quirked eyebrows of the others, the King continued dressing himself quickly, and after turning back for another piece to attach to his arm, Arthur frowned, peeked his head around Percival to sweep his gaze across the room, and asked, "Merlin, where's my sword?"

"I love that you immediately assume _I_ know where it is," Merlin muttered, walking over to the sword stand in the room

"You _are _the one usually handling my swords when I'm not using them," Arthur pointed out.

Grumbling to himself, Merlin scanned the hilts for the recognizable gold of Excalibur, and after not catching it the first time, he gave up looking and probed with his magic. "It's not here," the warlock murmured, feeling a chill slowly ooze down the length of his body. "Kay?"

Looking up from the sword that Arthur had returned to him, the ex-knight, who stood right beside him, said, "It should be on that stand, Merlin. That's where I saw it last, and I should know because I was the one who put it there. And I had given strict orders that no one touch your things."

Each word in Kay's answer felt like a lead weight being dropped in his stomach, and his scalp tingled as paranoid unease squeezed his lungs and chest tight.

_No, no, no, no. Oh, no, this is_ not _good_.

"Have you found Excalibur, Merlin?" Arthur called as Lot and his Knights made sure their swords were in decent shape.

Merlin, frantic now and feeling sick to his stomach—that blade could _not _fall into anyone else's hands—was just about to choke out an answer when a sinister chuckle sounded from the open doorway.

The warlock whirled to the door and froze upon seeing the dark witch, her pale green eyes frigid with biting fire. And there, brandished in her right hand of pearl marble that contrasted so greatly with the black lace of her gown, was Excalibur.

"A named blade," Morgana Pendragon said, lazily admiring its rune-covered length, "is indeed a rare thing. No wonder it holds such power."

"Morgana," Arthur breathed, eyes flickering from hers to Merlin's before locking on Excalibur.

"Hello, brother," she simpered with mock politeness. "Sir Knights, your Majesty, Kay." At the last name, a wickedly amused smirk twisted at her lips, and Kay tightened his grip on his sword and glared at her without the slightest trace of fear in his eyes.

When her gaze finally fell on Merlin, who was struggling to keep a guarded expression fixed on his face and who had discreetly started to move to place his body between Morgana and his friends the moment she made herself known to them, the twisted amusement disappeared, and a cold mask of loathing replaced it.

"_Merlin_," she hissed.

* * *

><p>(1) Princess Tyler Briefs inspired the use of the legendary nickname "Wart" for this section of banter.<p>

(2) Shirt of chainmail, mentioned by Gwen in 1x02

(3) This edit was inspired by a pm chat I had with Yami no Serena.

AN: Yes, I did indeed just do that. :P Anyway, I hope this didn't bore you too much and that you can forgive me for another appallingly slow update.

In terms of fic news, I've got an idea for an Only Friend sequel, but I'm not going to be starting that until this fic is done, or I'll go nuts. I intend to be finished by January 2013, so we'll see how it goes. :)

Thanks, everyone!

Oz out.


	22. Balance

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: Oh, would you look at that! Oz actually DID survive the Mayan apocalypse! ;P

I'm awfully sorry, you guys. December turned out to be a heck of a lot busier than I had anticipated. Between finals studying, finals, the fic exchange I took part in, the holidays, the studying for the pharmacy tech certification test that I'm taking on Wednesday... Yeah, I'm done. :) No more excuses for me.

Anyway, happy New Year's, everyone! And happy anniversary to this fic! I can hardly believe that it's been a YEAR since I began writing it. :s So much for me finishing this by January 2013, huh?

This is a minichapter, obviously. I wanted to update this again after finishing Holly Leaves because this is getting ridiculous - the length of time between updates, I mean - but I was definitely not ready to write the Merlin-Morgana battle (*sighs*). Oh, speaking of my guilty conscience - a special thank you to Liv it up 124 for her support and wise words. :D

I hope you enjoy this, even if it may not be what you wanted or expected. I'm actually very proud of the beginning. :)

* * *

><p><strong>Balance<strong>

Erupting from the Darkling Woods and raising a flock of birds from their slumber, the eerie sound of a hunting horn tumbled through the air and echoed through the empty city streets, chilling those who remained within the castle walls to the very bone. The rising sun did little to vanquish the dark cloud of anticipation hanging over Camelot, and the hearts of the fighting men did not soften with joy at the promise of a new day.

Because they knew it could very well be their last, and some might call that knowledge both a blessing and a curse.

Its warning was the blessing; its reminder, the curse.

While it warned the knights about the consequences of taking risks with their lives and about what would happen should they fail and leave the kingdom without protectors, it also reminded them that there would be causalities and losses on both sides and that there _was _a possibility that they would lose.

War was no place for a soft heart, and it was foolish to forget that war was no game or tourney, no playground for boys pretending to be men, and no quest for glory. The warriors who did forget knew little of life's cruelty and hindered more than helped, and their hesitations, trepidations, and lamentations during battle—there was no time for such things on a battlefield, where swords and spears flashed and slashed from all sides and crossbow bolts poured from the turrets. He who had not the will nor strength of character to _fight_, he who feared what it _truly_ felt like to slip a sword through an enemy's ribs and who let his thoughts and heart overcome his survival instinct—he was already branded a dead man.

But then again, one must be wary of the trap that lay in a stony heart, where men have all too often fallen to their dooms. Ruthless, cruel, and animalistic, these warriors prowled, hardly batting an eye as they struck down countless people and felt nothing but pleasure in seeing crimson staining their sword. Nothing stopped them from hungering for more power and for more death. Because they hadn't the smallest trace of mercy or pity in their hearts, because they felt no regret when they realized how many families they had torn apart, and because they didn't even feel _numb _when they cut their enemies' throats_, _they became unrecognizable, inhuman. He who had not the will nor strength of character to _feel_, he who had no ties of loyalty nor any cause worth fighting for and who morphed into a bloodthirsty monster and reveled at the destruction he had wrought—he was already lost.

There was a delicate balance between mercy and mercilessness, inhumanity and humanity. For without incorporating both sides of the extremes into oneself, a fighting man was sure to lose either his life or his _self_. Depending on the person, one fate was worse than the other, but the knights of Camelot had long since learned that they wouldn't dream of wishing either fate on one of their own.

And that was perhaps one of the many reasons why the knights of Camelot were considered the most noble in the land.

And that was why, though they had some innate fear of death, they feared failure _more_.

Each knight, eyes fixated on the forests before him, stood silently with his sword at rest in its sheath. However, the very instant the horn blew, the group simultaneously tensed and moved gloved hands to rest on the hilt of their swords, which were more their trustworthy companions than they were mindless weapons, and without knowing it, every last one of the chainmail-clad men drew strength from the sight of his brothers finding the same reassurance and hope he found in the simple, unified movement.

And yet another reason why the knights of Camelot were considered the most noble in the land.

The horn had signaled for them to prepare, and each of them, in their own way, began to do so. From above, it appeared as though the massive line of men, once stock-still and statuesque, rippled like the surface of a pond with the movement of rolling shoulders and shuffling feet.

Gwen had seen the knights prepare for major battles and for spontaneous attacks alike many, many times over the years. Even though the knights, with their Pendragon crests and mighty swords, had always been a presence in her life and even though Camelot had had quite a bit more than its fair share of violence that required the knights' valor, it never once failed to awe, humble, and inspire her when she saw them coming together to face a threat.

This time, however, it was different. For peppered in the scarlet sea, standing as proud and tall as the knights beside them, were Druids and sorcerers trained in combat. Although they did not wear the trademark colors of Camelot, there was no denying that they were _of _Camelot. It was incredible that the magicians had chosen to stand with the knights who had once hunted them and that the knights, in turn, had chosen to recast their belief systems in light of their new alliance.

But this was more than an alliance. This was _belonging_…and the beginning of something more.

The magicians and knights had united in spirit, and they had melded mentalities and values, had molded fears and prejudices, so that they now fought against a common enemy and for a common goal. It wasn't just any goal but one of the most honorable of goals_, _and it was a goal that would forever mark them on the pages of history and in the minds of men as _one_ people. It didn't matter that one man possessed magic while the man beside him didn't. They were fighting for a better tomorrow, a future purified of the filth wrought by ignorance and dark magic.

They fought for peace and freedom for all, and no matter how many times Gwen came to the profound realization of the social and moral battle that was already fought and won that day and no matter the amount of tense anxiety hanging in the air, she would always remember the moment as one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen.

She only wished that the two who had made it possible were there to witness it as well.

The first blast of the horn barely faded away before the second one was released. Moving her eyes from the brave men waiting anxiously below and feeling the lack of Arthur and Merlin's presence more keenly than ever before, Gwen stared in the direction Morgana was to be approaching from and said simply, "She is coming."

The words themselves were completely unnecessary—the purpose of the horn's call was to announce that the witch was nearly upon them and that her army would be seen from the foremost battlements and highest towers within minutes, after all—but to say those words aloud made all the difference in the world. Not only did it remind her that this accomplishment could be undone if Morgana prevailed but it also placed her into a more grave state of mind.

As was required of her as queen.

Her companions, who had tensed upon hearing the horn, shifted at the sound of their queen's voice, and her brother responded, "It ends here."

"Where it all began," Gwen whispered.

From her peripheral vision, she saw Iseldir raise a finger to point at the horizon, and he said, "You can see the wyverns now."

Sure enough, a black swarm could be seen gathering in the sky. According to the reports she had received, the wyverns were the lesser of beasts and demons Morgana had enlisted to fight alongside her men.

The witch herself, however, had not been seen by a single one of her scouts or spies.

As the cloud of wyverns grew at a startling rate, Gwen was about to make a mildly dark joke about how Kilgharrah's assistance would be most appreciated at a time like this and how one mighty roar of his could probably send those screeching, whiny monsters running for the hills, but suddenly, a feeling of frigid uneasiness and _wrongness _slid down her spine, she cut herself off and frowned.

A mere heartbeat passed before it hit her.

She could hear the wyverns. Albeit at the extreme edge of her hearing, she could still _hear_ their shrieking cries ringing through the air…

But she shouldn't have been able to, not when there was supposed to be a third call of the horn.

Panic jolted through Gwen, and while her mind stumbled over itself in an attempt to figure out exactly how much time had passed since the end of the second call, she whirled to Iseldir and cried, "The shields! _Now_!"

The Druid leader's icy blue eyes were already consumed with gold.

After flickering her gaze away from the older man to scour the surrounding forests for movement, Gwen cursed herself aloud, slammed her hands down on the low barrier before her, and dug her fingers uselessly into the stonework.

It had been a horrible, horrible mistake. The queen had been trying to preserve the Druids' energy by waiting as long as possible to give the order to put up the shields, and instead, her good intentions backfired on her, leaving her with a sour taste in her mouth and a pang in her heart.

Because why else wouldn't the horn-bearer sound the horn unless he was…?

Gaius' hand squeezed her shoulder reassuringly, and he said, "Gwen—"

With the hint of a pained grimace, she signaled for him to stop before he could say another word. The supportive words wouldn't have changed the fact that, whether she was to blame or not, this mistake might just cost them the battle.

Knowing full well that the witch was so driven by ambition that she hardly possessed a hint of a moral code or fiber of honor, Gwen should have foreseen this. She should have known that it was not beneath Morgana to ignore the unsaid rules of warfare and siege and that she _would _be the type to plan a nasty subterfuge that would catch them unawares while they were focused on the approach of her main army.

"I'm such a _fool_!" she hissed.

"No, Gwen, never that," Gaius said from beside her.

She never got the chance to respond or even wipe away the two angry tears that had slipped down her cheeks because just as the transparent shimmer of magic began to form around the outer edges of the city and spread, the stone underneath her fingertips began to vibrate. Leaping back as though the stone in front of her was a poisonous snake, the queen asked warily, "Iseldir?"

A furrow appeared between the older Druid's brow, and he said perplexedly, "That isn't our doing. The shields—" Suddenly stiffening and wincing as though he was in pain, Iseldir's eyes squeezed shut, and his hand cradled his head with a muffled groan.

Before Gwen could reach out to try to comfort the man, his blue eyes, somewhat dazed and distant, flew open, and he said, "There is dark magic at work here."

No sooner had Iseldir said those chilling words than a large _crack _sounded through the air like thunder, and every single pair of eyes flashed downward, where the stone road leading into the citadel had crumbled and split wide open, revealing a crevice large enough for three or four men to walk breadthwise without hitting their shoulders on the sides.

The knights and guards standing nearest to the site jumped and yelped at the sudden sound, but then there was silence. For a precious few seconds, all they could do was stare at the marred earth and destroyed stone with shock and fear.

Hideous laughter erupted from the dark depths of the crevice, and the first beast, black as night and large as a horse, shot out into the light. Yipping, snapping, and laughing, a pack of mangy mongrels soon followed.

Over the muttering of the men and the cries of recognition from the sorcerers, Leon could be heard shouting orders, and there was a wave of movement as the men below rearranged themselves and drew their weapons and as the archers above raised their crossbows. The monsters did not seem to notice or care, and they continued roughhousing and leaping about like playful pups about to be taken out for exercise.

Snarling and grinning simultaneously, the black alpha abruptly released a forceful bark, and immediately, the pack stilled and faced the citadel. Once they had settled, the alpha stepped forward.

And it spoke, projecting its voice at an impossible volume. "The Lady Morgana is merciful."

The beast had hardly finished its statement before shouts, gasps, and cusses of outrage erupted from the throats of hundreds and shook the entire castle.

"Arthur…" Gwen murmured, her voice cracking with fear. He—he couldn't be…? No, no she would have felt it, but how did this beast _know_…how could it _sound _so much like him? How could it have perfected every cadence in his tone?

"It mimics voices, my Lady!" Iseldir hissed in her ear with a clipped, angry tone. His jaw twitched in his wrath, and those frosty blue eyes flashed dangerously. "It is an entrancing magic used to trick its prey, and Morgana obviously intended to disarm us by exploiting that ability for this message. Take no heed of its mockery of us."

The beast must have had some strange fondness for dramatic pauses because it wasn't until after Iseldir spoke and Gwen collected herself that it continued in the voice that was so painfully, so obviously her husband's, "She offers Camelot one chance for surrender, and it is suggested that you take it."

Guinevere staggered backwards at Arthur's voice being used for such words, and a wave of anger washed over her. "Never!" she shouted as loud as she could. Roars erupted from below as her men growled and snarled colorful insults and proclamations of support for their queen's one-worded response to the witch's offer.

Glowing yellow eyes locked on her, and it laughed. It laughed in the same way that Arthur did whenever he landed a good hit during training or whenever a young knight he was training landed a good hit on _him_…

A collective flinch ran through Camelot's warriors at the familiar laughter, and Gwen felt as though she had been struck across the face.

"My mistress had been hoping you'd say that, Queen Guinevere Pendragon," it sneered. "Be prepared to lose your home this day, and be prepared to lose your heart and hope, people of Camelot. We will enjoy watching as they who built this city tear it down...and fall with it."

_They who built this city…_

The monster-dog bared its teeth into a gruesome smile. "_Never_ you say, false queen? You will never see your king or bastard warlock the same again indeed, and you have sealed your doom. Queen Morgana's coming is imminent."

Tilting its head skyward, where the shield was nearly done forming, its voice switched from Arthur's to Merlin's, and cheerfully, brightly, and impishly, it exclaimed, "Oh, look at that! You even left the door open for us. How kind of you."

And with a dark chuckle, it lunged.

The knights and sorcerers, fueled by determination and fury, were ready for it and the pack at its heels.

~…~

When the witch's eyes passed over him, when he heard her sneer his name and saw that damned smirk, Kay had expected his heart to jolt and had expected a chill to run down his spine. His memories of her were enough to simultaneously petrify him with terror and make him weak-kneed with shame, but somehow, someway—now that she was there in the flesh—reality defied his expectations.

He didn't so much as tremble.

_A coward trembles in the face of fear._

Merlin, his cloak sweeping over the floor and his eyes flashing dangerously, had inched sideways so that his body acted as a protective shield between his companions and Morgana, whose pale, gaunt face was shaped and defined by shadows that made her look like a demon from hell and whose glacial eyes glowed with a hatred so powerful and intense they appeared crazed and inhuman.

_A brave man accepts his fear as a part of him and faces it head-on._

Oh, yes, he was still afraid. He was afraid of the madness within her. He was afraid of the dark magic she wielded and of the lengths she would go to get what she wanted. He was afraid of what might happen and of the images—images of a burning Camelot, images of a lifeless Merlin animated by her wicked magic, images of a broken Arthur and a ruined future... He was _more _than afraid of the gruesome images she had gladly implanted in his mind during her vengeful rants.

But above all, he was _furious_. A part of it was selfish fury. No man, no matter how pure of heart, would have been able to forgive the wrongs that Morgana had done upon him by contorting his will, his mind, and his heart, but it was for what he had nearly done to his king, his friends, his people, and his _kingdom_ that made that fiery blaze of anger leap and lick hotter and faster through his veins.

Once a knight of Camelot, always a knight of Camelot, and it wasn't until now that Kay fully realized that the position was more than a title. It was something else, something less tangible and more spiritual. Being a knight was a way of life, a way of thinking, acting, and breathing. It was its own moral code, and it—it was who he was.

No amount of magic could change that.

Kay's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

* * *

><p>AN: The next update will NOT take this long and WILL contain the anticipated battle. This I promise you. I won't break this one this time because after my test on Wednesday, there's NOTHING stopping me from writing this fic and dedicating my time to making this as perfect as I possibly can make it.<p>

Again, best wishes for the new year!

Oz out.


	23. Part I: Merciless

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: I just want to say... all of those people who've just found this fic, you guys rock. Thank you. All of those people who've been with me since the beginning, you are all angels - every single one of you - for putting up with me and for being awesome enough to continue reading even though I take SO LONG between updates and even though I continue to break promises.

Because I broke BOTH of the promises I made last time. 1) This definitely DID take a long time, and 2) this chapter is, as you might have already seen, a two-parter, so the magic-battle is...mostly going to be in the next chapter. *cringes away from flying tomatoes*

I usually avoid boring you with explanations and excuses, but I really owe you all an explanation this time because...this will happen again.

Last semester, I took 15 hours, but since quite a few of those classes required very little work, it felt as though I only had to work hard for maybe 10 of those hours. This semester, I'm taking 17 hours, and 5 of those are for two separate labs. 2 credits for one, and 3 credits for the other. Of course, what they neglect to mention is that you aren't in lab for 2 or 3 hours. No, for my "2-hour" lab, I'm in there for about 2-4 hours per week, depending on the experiment. For the other, I'm in there 6-9 hours a week. So, in actuality, it feels not like 17 hours, but 20-25 hours.

And as you can imagine, I'm struggling a little, so I really truly, truly appreciate your patience and apologize if the next chapter takes even longer than this one did.

Now that I'm done complaining... I'm rather proud of this chapter. Very proud of the second scene, in particular. Not so proud of the end because it feels rushed and just...boring, but rest assured, the more detailed magicky stuff WILL be in the next chapter. And there's absolutely NO way I can lie this time, as you'll soon see.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Part I: Merciless<strong>

It was terrifying.

No. Even '_terrifying'_ was a sadly lacking word, and no word, nor _book _of words, could begin to describe the feeling that coursed through those who witnessed the very moment the wall of slobbering beasts collided with the men standing in the defense of Camelot.

And yet, a petrified Gwen couldn't avert her eyes. She was frozen, unable to move or think… or even remember that this was _her _doing, _her _mistake. All she could do was _watch _as the first blood was spilt, but… even if she _had _been capable of averting her eyes during the initial charge, she wouldn't have been able to escape the _sound_—the sound of the monsters' vicious, blood-curdling snarls and disturbing, eerie giggles, the sound of the men, _her men_, roaring in defiance…and screaming in pain as they fell, the sickening sound of lucky swords and arrows embedding themselves in the mutts' chests…

When she saw the black alpha brutally rip out the throat of a young solider and turn, slowly, obviously, to gaze upon the queen standing on the battlements, blood dripping from its jaws, and _grin_, Gwen returned to herself with a shocking jolt. Wincing violently and drawing a shuddering breath to force away the fear and bile clawing up her throat and the tears building in her eyes, she finally regained control of her body, closed her eyes, and turned away. Her reaction seemed to draw the others from their horrified, entranced states, and after exchanging glances with their queen and with each other, they found their strength and determination once more and darted off—Iseldir to the bell tower, Elyan to the courtyard, and Gaius, accompanied by Gwen herself, to the infirmary.

It truly had begun.

~…~

"_Merlin."_

His name might have fallen like a hiss from her leering lips, and her narrowed, sunken eyes might have gleamed with a reptilian light, but it was the sight of Excalibur in her hands that made it truly feel as though her evil fangs had pierced him, staining his veins, fogging his mind, and tainting his soul with her cold venom.

Beyond his panic at the repercussions that could ensue with that blade resting in her hands, her venom, her presence, the madness in her eyes, that damned smug _smirk—_it infected him with a rage unlike he'd ever felt before. Rage at himself for having a part in luring the monster out into the world, for not being good enough to keep her from losing herself, for getting into this predicament in the first place. But that rage, seeping with pity and memories of the beautiful person who once possessed the wretched creature before him, was nothing compared to his rage at the injustice and evil that had been wrought by her hand.

She had nearly taken _everything_ from him, from Arthur, from his friends and people; she had nearly undone _everything._ If he failed here, there was still the possibility that all _could _be lost, and though that thought had been in his mind since regaining his magic, it did not fail to make his heart clench, and it was here that it would finally be decided. For better or for worse. And if that wasn't bad enough! Now, on top of that, _Excalibur_ sat in the filthy, greedy hands that just wanted to take and take and take. It was the final straw.

With his friends positioned safely behind him, he ignored her scrutinizing gaze and stared solely at the sword before he slowly, _finally_ met her eyes.

As her emotions flared and control faltered, the disgustingly sweet sensation of her magic warped and fluctuated around all of them. He felt his own magic, recognizing hers as the enemy, skip erratically in response to the turmoil within in her. Its reaction, strangely enough, calmed him marginally and cleared his head, and suddenly, the tone with which she said his name, the frigidness with which she glared…all that would make grown men shudder and tremble only made a humorless smile twitch at his lips.

"Morgana."

With his senses hyperaware of everything and everyone in the room, he could feel the others behind him shift and stiffen at the tone of his voice, which was unrecognizable even to the warlock. The witch herself seemed unbalanced, but before he could read the emotion she tried so hard to hide, that glacial mask was back in place. Her eyes, however, lost their cold edge and studied him with a lazy interest.

And then she laughed.

If she had been taunting him, he would have expected her laughter to be callous and dark; on the contrary, the laughter that spilled from her lips was delightfully _amused_, and it reminded him far too much of the young woman who used to laugh whenever she witnessed him winning a battle of wit against Arthur, whenever Gwen muttered a quick quip under her breath as she walked with her mistress through the Lower Town, whenever Arthur or Uther made jokes during feasts…

If it had been any other time, her sudden laughter might have been a mild blow on his self-esteem. Perhaps it might have even sent a nostalgic pang shooting through his heart, but instead, it only… _irritated_ him.

She might _know_ of his magic now and _know_ the oh-so hilarious irony of it all, and she might _know_ how powerful his magic was and _know_ that she either wanted it eradicated or wanted it for herself (and now had another _exhilarating_ chance to follow through with that desire), but it had never been more obvious that she didn't _understand_ it. And that would be her downfall. For in laughing at him so confidently, so joyously, she proved that she was not only completely insane but also that her ignorance was worse than he imagined.

She overestimated herself and was thus underestimating him. It might not seem connected in any clear way, but while she laughed, he somehow saw it more clearly than ever.

Not only did she not understand his magic, but she also hardly understood her _own_ magic…or magic in it of _itself_.

She _used _it, yes, and she knew how to use it _effectively_—that, he instinctively knew, was Morgause's work, for no one could have progressed as much as Morgana had in the few months she had been away from Camelot, and if Morgause had somehow transferred her knowledge and power to her sister, it would explain how Morgana had discovered some of magic's darkest secrets so _easily_ and how she was able to posses and command such power despite her obvious lack of discipline and practice. It would also explain why she and her magic seemed…mentally unbalanced. Demented.

The corrupted, vile _aura _the witch cast showed that she, too, knew the addictiveness of magic's touch—a feeling that was only intensified by the black magic she was so keen to use and abuse—but she didn't respect it or its place in the world. She couldn't sense it flowing through every living thing. She couldn't see magic's true beauty, the beauty of simply _existing _in their world as it did, and she was incapable of appreciating the way it was interwoven into the earth, seas, and skies and into everything in between, not when she was so busy taking advantage of it for her own means.

If she understood, she would have listened to her instincts and would not have _dared_ to _laugh_ like this at the Emrys. The taunting, dark laugh he had expected from her, on the other hand, would have been somehow more acceptable to him. That type of laugh would have shown that she was sane enough to realize she wasn't invulnerable and to suggest enough confidence in her abilities to intimidate _him_.

But this? What the hell was _this?_

Yes, even though he wasn't feeling his best and even though his magic was sore and throbbing from the vile mistreatment it had suffered and even though his head pounded and even though he was cornered in a small room with six others to protect and even though it must have been _so_ funny to see him, Arthur's thin and foolish _manservant_, whom she had seen trip on flat ground more times than one, step between her and six larger men, she had just made a _big _mistake.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to explain the joke, Morgana," Merlin said with a darkly sarcastic tone.

"Oh, there's no specific joke," she laughed mockingly. "It's _all_ of them, _Emrys_. All of the jokes. All of the lies." Twirling the sword, she took a half-step forward, an action which Merlin reacted to immediately, and she abruptly stopped laughing, her pale eyes gleaming contemptuously as she surveyed his stance before the knights. "And it's only _you_. I expected something more."

"You develop an elaborate plan," Merlin began slowly in disbelief, his tone growing frostier with every word, "with its foundation depending on the enslavement of my magic, and a part of you still can't believe it, can it? You _know _who I am and what I have done—I can see it in your eyes, the accusations, the memories, the pieces you've fit together—but it bothers youthat you never figured it out on your own," he taunted, his anger getting the better of him and causing him to pointedly ignore sharp, warning mutters of '_Merlin' _emitting from the mouths of Lancelot and Arthur. "It bothers you that you never felt it before...and still can't feel it, isn't that right?"

Morgana's entire body went rigid, and after what seemed like an eternity of silence—murky sea clashing with stormy sky all the while—her beautiful features contorted into a snarl. "You think you're so _clever, _so _crafty…" _she simpered sweetly. _"_You somehow managed to keep your precious _secret _from everyone, including your ownkind… You, a _peasant, _a _servant,_ somehow manage to be the prophesized Emrys, hiding under Uther's very nose. _You, _Arthur's _pup_, somehow manage to unravel all of my plans. The one time I think I've got the better of you, you _still _manage to stay one step ahead of me…Oh, yes, the joke was _always_ on me, wasn't it, _Merlin_?"

Noticing the bitter, hysterical edge her voice had taken at the end of her rant, Merlin's eyes narrowed to slits, and he said, "It was never a joke, Morgana, and it's foolish to think for a single _moment _that it ever was one."

The hilarity had long since fled from her expression, and loathing and wrath was quickly replacing it and intensifying with every passing second. "Oh, but it _is_ a joke, Merlin Emrys. One of the best I've heard in a long time," she purred. "But don't worry, you'll soon see who will have the last laugh."

From behind him, Merlin heard Gwaine murmur in a tone that reminded him of Gaius whenever he produced some unexpected results with a certain mixture, "Dear gods she _has_ gone mad."

Merlin was torn about whether he wanted to snort or shoot the knight a warning glare over his shoulder, but in the end, he decided it would be best if he withheld any reaction. Instead, he decided to focus on the words that inspired Gwaine's observation and clenched his jaw shut fiercely.

If the witch herself heard Gwaine, she gave no sign, and while the atmosphere around her became more charged with her magic's violent energy, her muscles tensed in preparation for the imminent fight, and her eyes remained locked on Merlin as the warlock said in a deadly quiet voice, "I don't think anyone will be laughing when we are done here, Morgana." His magic coiled within him, blazing and rearing at every flicker of change within hers…only too ready to spiral outwards into a shield when she struck out (for he knew that it was only a matter of time before she got impatient of this infuriating impasse). "You actually surprised me," he added with mock-thoughtfulness. "I thought you had long since lost the ability to do so, you are so tainted by hatred and vengeance."

"And is that so surprising after what _you've_ done to me, Emrys? What is there left for me to love?" Morgana demanded in a snarl. "You not only poisoned me and betrayed me, but you've also _killed_ my sister, the last person I felt any loyalty to. I have _nothing_ left but this."

Despite everything she had done, a renewed flood of pity entered his heart at the _finality_ of her words, but almost as soon as that pity appeared, weariness rushed over him, nullifying everything—his boiling anger, his sympathy, his fear...

Gone.

"This?" he exhaled emotionlessly. "Morgana, what is _this? _With magic free in Camelot, what more is there that _this _can be?Don't you get _tired _of _this_? Don't you ever wonder what it would be like to live again? To let _this_ go and _walk away_?"

The witch stared at him as though _he _had gone insane—maybe he _had _gone insane_…_ the incredulous stares on his back certainly weren't making him feel any saner—and he said in a tone so soft that it was almost inaudible, "What do you really fight for?"

When a humorless chuckle escaped her lips, Merlin knew that there was nothing more he could do. There was nothing left of his once-friend that deserved that mercy, that second chance, he was offering her. He knew it was over even before she smirked, "You think this is something I can walk away from? No…Merlin Emrys. _Never_. Why _would_ I walk away? I _want _this."

Tilting his chin up, Merlin said simply, resignedly, "You have sealed your fate, Morgana Pendragon."

Her eyes narrowed, and she spat, "And just who do you think you are to say my fate is sealed?"

For one moment, Merlin was _almost _tempted to respond with his usual cheek just to see her reaction, but they were past the point of no return. In fact, they had long _since _been past that point. It had been foolish of him to even try to reach her, to touch her with his words, and with that animalistic gleam in her eye becoming sharper with every passing second and with her magic so volatile, it would be even _more_ foolish to get cheeky now.

Besides, if he heard _another_ bloody threat against his 'insolent tongue'…

"The mighty Emrys," the witch continued with a leer. "Don't think I can't see it, _old friend_. I still cannot believe a fool like you, Emrys or no, managed to find a way to escape my enchantment, but it surely has taken its toil on you. Look at you. _Pathetic. _I do wonder if the gods made a _mistake_."

The insult evoked a response from the men behind him, and gritting his teeth, Merlin shot out his arm to stop Arthur from advancing. The action, however, did not stop the irate king from growling, "You're so quick to gloat and taunt, Morgana. Why don't you stop and take a good look at _yourself_?" A small, humorless smirk twitched at the corners of his lips, and Arthur, his blue eyes relentless, said in a tone that mimicked hers, "I can't help but wonder how you managed to bring yourself so _low_."

The only sign that the barb had any effect on her was the slightest narrowing of her eyes, and puckering her lips mockingly and swinging the sword like an innocent girl would her favorite doll—the utter disregard she had for the legendary blade in her hand made Merlin's blood begin to boil once again—she cooed to the king, "Aw, who would have ever believed it? Arthur Pendragon _defending _a sorcerer. _Caring _for him. It's so precious! Tell me, _brother_, did it _hurt _to watch his spirit fade?"

Merlin's hand squeezed his king's arm as a warning and a plea to _be careful_, but he did not remove his eyes from the witch. The warlock didn't have to look to see the blazing sapphire eyes or the deep scowl on Arthur's lips when his friend snarled, "That won't work with me, Morgana. Not anymore. It might make you feel better about yourself, but it doesn't change the fact that Merlin's magic will _never _be yours and that your pawn—no offense, Kay—is no longer under your power. Face it, Morgana; your plan _failed._"

"Has it?" the witch asked, arching an eyebrow. "Has it really? How wrong you are, brother. You seem to forget I have an army knocking at your front door as we speak, and yes, I might not have your pet's powers, but I have stumbled across what seems to be a _very _powerful artifact and a severely weakened warlock, and what is more! Camelot _will _be mine by sunset."

"I don't think so," Kay growled from behind Merlin. "We will stop you."

"As charming as I find it that you've wiggled your way back into Camelot red, Kay," Morgana said with insulting dismissiveness, "your usefulness has long since expired. Even _Lot _hasn't been properly disposed of yet!" The witch made a noise of mocking disapproval with her tongue against the roof of her mouth and ignored the indignant sound made by the Escetian king before sighing in mock disappointment. "I suppose there is some truth in what they say: if you want something done right, you've got to do it yourself."

Sensing their time for chatter was drawing to a close, Merlin defensively raised his hand, and Morgana, looking unfazed by the movement, smirked and continued, "And since Kay has neglected to do what I had required of him, it will only be my _pleasure _to ensure that none of you ever see your beloved Camelot again."

"I don't think so," Merlin said. His tone might have been soft and unassuming, his face might have been impassive, but his eyes, raging with fury and storming with fire, betrayed his true wrath.

"Oh, don't be like that, Emrys," she hissed, crouching low. "Think of it as… an act of mercy. My way—" her lips twisted demonically "—you and your king won't have to see your kingdom fall and dear Guinevere slaughtered. And _maybe_, if you're good and decide to step aside now, I will even kill you first… so that you don't have to see _him _die by my hand."

Merlin's vision became flooded with red.

With images of the dark future she desired melding with the images of whips and blood and vials and twisted grins and scowls and tortured azure eyes—with his magic throbbing incessantly, a constant reminder of what she had done to _him_—with the reinforced realization that there was no way in _hell _that he was going to let all that he, Arthur, Gwen, and the knights sacrificed be wasted_, belittled_,andtrampledunderfoot_, _his last ounce of control slipped from his grasp, and baring his teeth in a feral snarl, he growled, "It ends here, Morgana."

"Oh ho!" Morgana exclaimed with mock-surprise, placing her hand on her chest. "That sounded quite… _extreme_ for you, Merlin! And for a moment, I swear I nearly feared for my life." Her smirk became smug. "But then I remembered who I was talking to."

"Merlin's more powerful than you could ever _dream _of being, witch," Gwaine burst out. "I wouldn't be so dismissive of that."

Scoffing, Morgana shrugged offhandedly. "He cannot kill me." Her pale, malicious eyes glinted as they flicked to him once again. "Can you, Merlin?"

With his stony expression crumbling, Merlin stiffened, and when the realization that she wasn't questioning his _ability _to kill her hit him, a shock of revulsion and confusion soon followed. For the briefest moment, he frantically struggled against the deluge of blazing cold consuming his heart and mind, and he floundered, casting about for what remained of _himself _beyond the ire and vengeance he felt egging him on and tainting his wounded magic, beyond the horrifyingly _easy _thoughts of the ways in which he could and _would_ triumph, and beyond the personal pleasure of feeding the darkness, of nurturing those malevolent thoughts and letting them fester and spawn—he cast aboutfor something to _ground_ him…because he was in danger of approaching the edge of the pit in which _she_ had already sunk.

_She is the darkness to your light, the hatred to your love…_

This wasn't him. The wrath—that was justified. It was _alright _to feel like this toward her when he meant to channel the emotion into something _good_, something that would benefit all. However, the longer he spent with Morgana, the further he slipped away, the further he was drifted from who _he _was…and when he had said that this would be the end, he hadn't meant that he wanted to end the suffering she had caused them all, to end the war that began with the birth of a prince and the death of a queen, and to end the violence and the fear once and for all. No, in that one moment, he specifically wanted—and wanted _badly_—to end _her. _

Somehow, that distinction made all the difference in the world. For, had he killed her with that goal in mind, he would have been no better than she was, and even as the light extinguished from her eyes, she would be happy in the knowledge that she _had_ won. That she had _broken_ him.

It was what distinguished her from him and him from her, and she, in her own cruel way, knew that and felt that she had the upper hand because of it.

_She is the darkness to your light, the hatred to your love…_

Arthur's shoulder brushed his own, and though he dared not look to his king and though the king dared not look to him in the knowledge that Morgana would take advantage of their weakness, the touch was enough to remind him, to lead him back, to prevent him from falling over the edge he was hanging so precariously over...

And yet…the edge was ever-present—it still _existed _and would always exist, no matter how many times he brushed it or managed to avoid it—and with the question still remained: how far could he lean over the edge before losing himself, before falling into that dark, dark pit and becoming incapable of emerging whole? Where was _his_ fine line? Was there even one…when he had always and would forever believe that killing was _never _the answer and even when death was nothing less than what the witch deserved?

When it came down to it, would he have the choice? And maybe even more importantly, was there even a choice in the first place?

After seeing that her comment had made Camelot's sorcerer stagger, Morgana watched him struggle to regain his footing before smirking, "That's what I thought. You are _weak, _Merlin, and your supposed morals and _heroic, _misplaced sense of self-righteousness (1) will be your undoing. This time I'm confident in the knowledge that not even you, _Emrys, _can stand in my way. You might have won the last battle, but you will ultimately lose the war (2). Right here, right now. But you know what? For all your _impressive _bravery, I don't believe you're worthy of my mercy after all. In the end, I will see your damn corpse burn, Merlin, just after I suck your magic dry and force you to watch your king beg and grovel and _finally _die at my feet. And Camelot? Camelot will honor her rightful queen."

"_Never," _Arthur and Merlin snarled simultaneously, their eyes flashing with protective fury and powerful determination.

The witch's eyes, hardening with annoyance, danced from ocean to sky and back again. "It's almost amusing that both of you continue to resist, and it's almost as amusing to think that this is no bravado on your part. This doesn't surprise me of Arthur, but _you_, Merlin? You really don't think you can defeat me in your state, do you?"

Inclining his head, Merlin spat, "_Try me._"

"Oh, I intend to."

~…~

Leon's sweat-soaked curls clung to his forehead as he danced, twirling and twisting with the grace and light-footedness of a cat.

If anyone had been able to take the chance to appreciate the lithe speed and flowing movements of Camelot's first knight, they might have considered the fact that comparing Leon to a cat was rather an unfortunate metaphor, especially seeing as his giggly partner was the one of the most colossal _dogs_ they had ever laid their eyes on.

In retrospect, perhaps for the best that no one could possibly stop to watch their companion fight and chuckle darkly at the irony.

He had seen the wounds. He had heard the screams.

No humor, not even dark humor, had a place in this battle.

Leon ducked and rolled under the beast he was fighting, springing back to his feet and dealing an instinctive backhand cut as he went. The smug satisfaction of hearing a sharp yelp when the blade sliced the dog's muzzle soon gave way to dread as the beast, enraged red eyes glowing with a hellish fire, pulled its lips into a snarl, flattened its ears against its skull, and released a blood-curdling growl from deep within its chest.

_Dammit._

He might have only fought two of these monsters since the alpha had offered a chance for surrender, but he knew _quite _well by now that when they stopped giggling and calling your name in painfully familiar voices…well, that was when you knew that you had gotten them _very _angry.

And somehow, he'd gotten stuck _alone _with it.

Without warning, its form _blurred_, and Leon had to thank his reflexes for allowing him to spin to the side to avoid the brunt of the powerful attack. Of course, he couldn't thank his sense of balance for his hard fall to the cobblestone…or for somehow giving his fingers permission to release the hilt of his sword.

If the loss of his weapon hadn't made freezing terror race through his blood, rooting him to the spot on the ground, he might have been really amused to see that the dumb animal, which, judging from the torn ears, jutting ribs, and old scars adorning its body, was one of the lowest of the pack, looked almost _shocked _to see that Leon had made a mistake and was now vulnerable.

When the thing finally began to stalk forward, grinning and looking for the entire world as though it was savoring and _greatly _enjoying the sight of him defenseless, adrenaline raced through the knight's blood, and it thawed all of the icy fear locking his muscles into place and spurred him into action. Leon shuffled backwards from the mercilessly grinning, lip-smacking monster, and it was just as the beast's muscles coiled in preparation to attack that Leon's shaking hand grasped the shaft of a discarded spear.

Gripping it in both hands and raising it above his head, Leon had just enough time to brace himself for the impact before the shaft caught the beast in the throat.

In the span of a single heartbeat, Leon fervently thanked and praised Merlin's brilliant foresight. Sure, at the time it had been downright amusing to have had caught their warlock muttering to himself and contemplating the armory's spears with a strange expression of enmity on his face. When the knights had teased him about his behavior, the sorcerer had merely scoffed and complained about spears' tendency to break at least opportune moments and about how they were really were just _sticks_ with pointy ends. However, when the knights had explained that spears were definitely _not _'the most worthless weapons in existence' and that they had many tactical advantages he, as a sorcerer, couldn't appreciate or understand and that he was most certainly exaggerating about their supposed 'flimsiness,' their insistences had fallen on deaf ears, and the warlock had merely cocked an eyebrow as if to _dare _them to stop him and had enchanted the lot anyway.

Yes, when Merlin returned with Arthur, Leon was going to have to apologize for chuckling at his antics that day…because had that spear not been enchanted, it most certainly _would_ have broken at the most inopportune time, and he would have surely been dead before he could so much as blink.

Of course, the fact that the spear didn't break did _not, _by _any _means, imply that he would have the chance to apologize.

Unyielding and seemingly indifferent to the shaft of wood crushing its windpipe, it stood over him on its rear legs and used every last ounce of its brute strength in its attempt to lay its teeth on Leon. The beast's weight and jerking lunges made his arms shake with effort as he warded off the snapping jaws, from which thick strands of spittle hung, and tried to avoid the pounding, flailing front paws and wickedly sharp claws.

"LEON!" Elyan's desperate scream somehow rose above the clamor of yelling and snarling.

_Too far…too far…he was too far…_

The older knight couldn't turn to acknowledge the sound of his name, couldn't turn to see Elyan's sword flash with renewed vigor and speed in his struggle to make a path towards his fallen friend, and shoulders and chest burning with the strain, he grunted as his strength failed him and the staff of the spear dropped closer to his chest, bringing the monster's teeth all that much closer to his face.

One more slip and those red eyes would be the last thing he'd ever see.

Rancid slobber dripped into his eyes, and blinded, Leon shook his head and struggled to draw his knees upward in a last effort to knock the thing off of him—or at the very least, _surprise _it—but as it turned out, its stomach and ribs were too high for him to knee...

Burning. Tearing. Screaming. Muscles in absolute agony. Jaw aching with the force of his gritted teeth. He could feel the beast's breath on his cheeks, smelling of raw flesh, blood, and death…

_He was going to die_. He wasn't going to make it this time. No, this time his luck had finally run out, and with the numb realization that his arms had slipped even lower, a surprising calm permeated him at a level far deeper, far beyond that of the terror, the failing strength, the determination and desire to _survive_, the racing heart, and the adrenaline-induced struggle that characterized the surface.

If he was to die, he was going to die fighting for Camelot, and he wouldn't have wanted it any other—

_Thud._

Something heavy impacted with the beast, and for an interminable few seconds, its shuddering body stilled and hung motionless over him. Thick, hot liquid poured onto his legs, and with his heart pounding in his ears, a stunned Leon hurriedly forced the dead weight off of him, and the beast keeled over, a spear protruding from its ribs, and allowed the knight to shuffle safely away from it.

Exhaling shakily at his escape from death's embrace, Leon wiped his eyes clear of the beast's spit and casted his gaze upward in shock.

An unnamed Druid, his eyes still glimmering with the gold of magic, caught his eye, and lowering his arm, the sorcerer nodded once to him and smiled weakly in relief.

Despite his overwhelmed state of disbelief, it was a smile and nod that Leon was only too happy to return.

And it was a nod of utter respect, a smile of utter gratitude.

When the Druid plunged back into battle, Leon's fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword once again, and he saw that, by some unknown agreement, teams of knights had formed—one for each beast—and had enlisted the help of one or two sorcerers.

They fought together, knights depending on magic just as much as the sorcerers depended on the bite of a blade, and their attacks worked in unity, flowing seamlessly and effortlessly into each other and doing more damage than they ever would without their opposite…and it almost seemed as though both the sorcerers and the knights had been _trained_ to coordinate, trained to _understand_ the other side's gifts and to know how to use their opposite's attacks to their advantage when they executed attacks of their own…

And he was still _sitting _there? How pathetic. It wasn't as though this was the _first _time he'd escaped a brush with Death by the skin of his teeth, after all.

Newfound strength flooded him, and surprisingly none the worse for wear, he got to his feet steadily, rolled his throbbing shoulders, and joined his brothers.

Those who didn't understand the spirit of warrior might have thought him mad when he rejoined the battle so soon after an experience like that, but Leon—Leon _was _of that spirit, and he wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

It was at the very same moment that Leon found himself shoulder-to-shoulder with Elyan, whose relieved, dark eyes critically appraised him for any signs of injury, that Morgana's remaining army of monsters and sorcerers reached the edges of Camelot's all-encompassing shield.

~…~

With the speed of a striking viper, Morgana engulfed her hand with dark emerald flames and hurled the handful of fire to the far right of him—where Percival and Lot stood—and having anticipated her move a fraction of a heartbeat early, Merlin threw up a shield that encompassed them all. Thankfully, his instincts served him well, and the fire, though singeing the edges of his mind as it hit and spilt over the shield, caused no harm.

Merlin Emrys didn't necessarily care that this was the first time he used magic in front of _her_, the witch destined to be his mortal enemy—and not only magic but _powerful, _nonverbal magic—but he didn't know whether to be grudgingly impressed or disappointed when Morgana, whose eyes had widened marginally, recovered quickly and when a vindictive, venomous scowl graced her face.

More fire pooled into her palms, and upon touching the green energy to the hilt of Excalibur, the flames began to dance along the blade, making them more powerful, more effective, more dangerous than they could ever be without the magic of the sword fueling them.

Those flames…ice slid down his spine. Any of Morgana's enchantments, when enhanced by the sword, would not be so easily deflected by his shields, and the amount of power and concentration it would take to prevent any of her spells from slicing straight through his defenses…

With the lingering affects of the poison in his body—even _with _the philosopher's stone—it would be nearly impossible to shield them all and simultaneously fight for their lives and for their freedom.

What he _needed_ was to get that sword away from her. Otherwise, his friends—the knights and the two kings…_his _king, _Arthur_—he had to protect them. For them, he would find a way to _make _the impossible possible.

For them, _anything_.

Determinedly, Merlin poured more magic into his friends' shield, strengthening it so that they could not intercede, so that they could not leave the barrier he had made for them, and with blazing gold eyes, he inclined his head to Morgana.

The warlock realized that when Arthur worked out what he'd done to prevent him from leaping in front of him to meet Morgana himself, to help fight her, he would be furious. Yes, the king (not to mention the knights) would probably curse him from the tip of his toes to the very last hair on his head for being such a self-sacrificing idiot.

But he wasn't about to let them get hurt, and if he was truthful with himself, he wanted to know exactly _where_ the six of them were in the room at _all times _because otherwise…

He wouldn't be able to ensure their safety otherwise, and even so, there was no guarantee he could keep them safe. Not with Excalibur in her hands.

Slashing the sword through the air with a yell, Morgana sent the emerald fire shooting toward him like an arrow from a bow, and unprepared for the speed of hurtling projectile and instinctively _knowing_ that if he darted to the side to avoid them, those flames would slice straight through the barrier and land, without a doubt, where Arthur's heart beat, Merlin raised both hands and shouted, "_Áblinn!"_ (3)

His magic slipped over the dart of fire like a bar of soap would over skin, and sparing only the briefest second to allow his stormy eyes to widen at the ineffectiveness of the spell, Merlin did the only thing he could do.

He caught the flames himself.

Despite the protective magic he used to suspend the fire between his palms, it burned, and Merlin hissed as the flames, as furious and hot as a dragon's breath, licked and bit his skin, blistering the very hands holding them prisoner.

But that pain wasn't what made Merlin unable to hold the flames for long. That wasn't what made Merlin drop them and allow them to fizzle and die on the cold stone floor.

For even as his skin burned, his wounded magic went up in an inferno and screeched, shrinking away and retreating…_leaving him_ to the cruel blaze of the flames, flames that were not only formed of her own cruel magic, the magic which had tortured his, but also of Kilgharrah's and of _his own_.

His own magic was being used against him and his friends maliciously, and it felt so wrong, so disgustingly _wrong _and _frightening,_ that it _hurt_. With his still-healing magic slipping from his control and _hiding_ in its effort to shield itself from the _injustice _of it, from the pain it recognized far too well from when it had been shackled, fear flooded the warlock, and he knew—he couldn't…he couldn't lose his magic again.

Never again.

So he practically threw the ball of fire to the ground in his desire to be _rid _of it, to distance himself from it as quickly as possible.

Arthur's worried gaze dug into the neck of his neck, and unable to stop himself, he flicked his gaze to the king. In doing so, he became distracted enough that he missed the sudden victorious gleam that flashed through the witch's pale eyes. He missed the joyous smirk at the opening and the sudden ease with which she held herself.

Fortunately, everyone else didn't.

"Merlin!"

After raising his eyes to the oncoming threat, Merlin took the time to glare heatedly at the over-confident Morgana, whose smile was the triumphant, ravenous one of a wolf that had just killed its first deer, and thinking quickly and ignoring the predictable cussing and yelling of a certain king who'd just realized he couldn't phase through his warlock's magic barrier, Merlin made a show of sighing loudly before he diverted the new wave of flames with a single sweep of his injured hand. As the ball of emerald fire exploded against the ground, he cringed at the amount of pain and discomfort even that small contact caused him. However, he hid his reaction behind a wide, toothy grin and taunted in a deep voice, "C'mon, Morgana. I'm disappointed. That can't possibly be the best you've got."

Maybe it probably wasn't the most prudent idea to provoke her, but he had to convince her that he _hadn't _been horribly affected by the touch of any spell she channeled through Excalibur. Besides, he could _sense _her lack of control and knew that if she lost her head to rage, she'd either tire herself or make a mistake, but either way, she'd be _done_.

And he'd be done with her.

Morgana's cocky, smug smirk fled, and baring her teeth in a snarl, she screamed in frustration and advanced, slashing the sword in frenzied motions in the air before her, muttering in the tongue of the Old Religion all the while. Even though every touch of the sword-enhanced spells made him feel increasingly ill and even though it became more and more difficult to deflect and outmaneuver her attacks without wincing or openly betraying how much pain he was in, Merlin merely gritted his teeth against the growing headache piercing his skull and forced a grin on his face, which seemed to get under her skin more than anything else.

When some of her projectiles and spells began to ricochet off the walls and nearly hit from behind, Merlin, who had been purely reacting to her attacks defensively so that he could tire her and irk her, knew with the outmost certainty that he couldn't possibly go on the offensive in this compact room.

He needed to get them out into the main room. He needed to space to _move _without fearing that he was leaving his friends vulnerable, and because he was tiring far more quickly than he thought he would, he needed to do it soon and preferably without warning because if he caught her by surprise, he would have the chance to find some part of his mind—a part that was _not _alreadybusy focusing on maintaining the shields or ignoring the pounding fists on said shield and the words emitting from the warriors from within said shield or deflecting spells or predicting her next move or working out a way to get Excalibur from her—available to reach for the stone and replenish some of his energy….

But of course, _she _was standing in the narrow doorway, and there came the question of how he'd be able to get the others out, shield them, and fend her off at the same time…

"I never would have thought the mighty Emrys a _coward_," Morgana suddenly mocked shrilly, her eyes wild and crazed. "_Fight. Back!_" (4)

Each screamed word was enunciated with an impulsive flood of magic, and Merlin couldn't help but smirk in satisfaction as the first of these violently knocked over a sword stand and sent several tables careening into the back wall.

The destruction of the second one, however, wiped that smirk off of Merlin's face.

Of course it would be _now_ that one of the benches would burst into flames.

And of _course _there just had to be very old, very _dry_ wood _everywhere_ in the room.

One blink and the small bench's fire expanded and spread, and smoke, thick and pungent, billowed in suffocating grey-black clouds that burned his eyes and made his lungs seize with chest-wracking coughs…

_Great._

* * *

><p>(1) Inspired by one of the Joker's quotes from The Dark Knight<p>

(2) Inspired by one of Morgana's quotes in 5x13

(3) Translation: cease!

(4) Yup, very much inspired by the Snape/Harry confrontation in _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_

AN: Yeah, I did just end it there. *sheepish grin* I know I'm dragging this out, but please believe me when I say that it wasn't intentional in any way, lol. Here's a little teaser for Part II. It'll be called "An Act of Mercy." ;D

Well, I don't have much to say. Oh! Wait, yes I do! I created a Twitter account specifically for fanfiction (and for stalking famous people), so if you're interested, my twitter... thing-ma-jig is **(at-sign)****Oz_out**. :D And also, outside of school-work, I've been keeping busy beta'ing, which I've discovered is an immense pleasure of mine. Unfortunately, I won't be accepting anymore fics to beta (I'm sorry, but I'm already stretching myself far too much), but I'm going to shamelessly promote these authors' works. If you're looking for some good fics to read, check out:

**Ryne42's "Bury Me Whole" **- an INCREDIBLE Purge-story that is not yet completed. Very intense. She sheds new light on _everything_. I seriously think it's pivotal, and I guarantee it will change your interpretation of not only the Purge but also of some characters/situations in the show as well. Beware: it is VERY dark and full of death.

**Estrelle Buscador's "Until the Day I Die"** - a modern-fic/post 5x13 fic that is not yet completed. I know modern fics are becoming all the rage after 5x13, but she really twists the plot in an unexpected way. Angsty. Wonderful characterizations and all around amazingness.

**ErinNovelist's "The Forgetful Reincarnation"** - a modern-fic that is not completed and that I have only just started beta'ing. Another incredibly unique take. Angsty and whumpilicious. It's really fantastic!

**ExcaliburMaiden** has written quite a few lovely, cute Merthian oneshots (Freylin, too, though I hadn't beta'd those)

**carinims01**... I dunno if she's posted anything I've beta'd yet... but I suggest you read her anyway because she's great.

If you want any other recommendations, pm me or leave me a message in a review. There are PLENTY of great authors I haven't mentioned above that deserve all the praise we can give them (LadyHeatherlly, TeganL74, BeyondTheStorm, OceanMintLeaves, ForIHaveOvercomeTheWorld, among MANY, MANY others).

Continue to spread the love, peeps! Encourage the new, first-time writers that've been popping up, if you can, and may you find inspiration wherever you may go! Thank you so much for reading! Please forgive my mistakes... or better yet, let me know about them so that I can fix 'em up.

Oz out


	24. Part II: Crushed

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: Before I say anything, I'm promoting **Tonzura123**'s oneshot **Kay **because it's brilliant. Completely unrelated to my Kay, but you should have seen the grin on my face when I saw it.

Just a few days shy of three months. Guys, I am _so _sorry. On that note, however, _thank you_ Mr./Mrs./Ms. Guest Reviewer(s) for consistently telling me to get on with an update. I have to admit it simultaneously flattered me and pained me to see those, but I deserved them. To all those who were patient and didn't bug me, I thank you so much for your understanding.

Now, if you haven't heard, I am now officially done with my freshman year of college (Finals were tough, but the beginning of April! Man, if you ever have the chance to see Bon Jovi live, don't ask questions, just GO, even if you only know a few songs. Brilliant performer. I also saw Bob Mould with my dad and stood six feet away from him. 6. feet. I saw the sweat on his forehead, and it was epic. I also got pulled into a mosh pit during that concert, which adds to the epic-ocity. Ears were ringing for nearly a week), and oh, gosh, sorry, back on track...

Though I will be taking summer school courses, I will be free to write more often. :D And I am finishing this fic this summer - that is my goal - so... let me assure you all, I will **NEVER** abandon this fic.

And another apology: this chapter. I wrote this slowly but steadily over the course of three months, so as you can imagine, it's just about everywhere. It's, frankly, not the best I've written to boot, and thanks to a random Gwen sub-plot (which takes up a huge chuck of this chapter), this has less Merlin in it than I would have hoped. Good news? **The 2-part fight scene will now be a 3-parter.**

Excuse my mistakes (it's late again) and enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Part II: Crushed<strong>

_Of course it would be _now_ that one of the benches would burst into flames._

_And of _course_ there just had to be very old, very _dry_ wood _everywhere_ in the room._

_One blink and the small bench's fire expanded and spread, and smoke, thick and pungent, billowed in suffocating grey-black clouds that burned his eyes and made his lungs seize with chest-wracking coughs…_

Great_._

...

In the end, it was only too obvious what he had to do. Well, no, perhaps it should be said that it wasn't so much _obvious _as it was that this idea of his was the only thing that could come to his smoke-hazed, desperate mind at such short notice and that it was the _simplicity _of it that made him believe it was so obvious.

So, all in all, _obvious_.

Lot might not be too pleased with him, sure, but with the smoke settling into their lungs and stinging their eyes, Merlin didn't see the king complaining _too _much when he broke his castle.

Because that is exactly what he did.

Blinking rapidly against the smoke and the blazing heat of the fire and stifling a cough, Merlin took his chance the very moment Morganahad a small coughing fit of her own and became distracted enough by the rapidly growing flames to unlatch her eyes from his and look over his shoulder, and with only the briefest glance at Arthur, whose nose was hidden in his elbow and whose chin raised infinitesimally when their eyes locked, the warlock swung the one hand to the wall and pushed violently forward with a shout of, "_Ábric_!" (1)

Even before the first _crack _and _crash _rent the air, Merlin carefully and quickly lowered the foremost barrier preventing his friends from moving forward, and after the first chunk of stone fell, it was without hesitation that Arthur, sensing the newfound lack of resistance against his movements, gestured wildly to the others to follow him and disappeared through the cloud of dust.

Morgana's shrill shriek of rage followed the lingering sound of crumbling, tumbling masonry, and trusting that the others would dart after their king through the gaping hole in the wall and wanting nothing more than to buy them all time to escape the wild fire, Merlin swung back to Morgana with flashing eyes. The hand that had once been held before him swept across a massive piece of the destroyed wall, and the stone rose from the ground and whipped itself toward Morgana.

Naturally, he aimed poorly, and she easily dodged his projectile with a mocking laugh, but Merlin had already sent another hurtling towards her head. This, she could not dodge in time, and pale eyes widening, she hastily threw up a hand and barked in a constricted, hoarse voice, "_Áciere ond torfe_!" (2)

Sweat and tears poured down his face, but despite his blurry vision and the growing pain in his chest, he caught the stone again. Hissing at the heat at his back, which seemed to him to be seconds away from lighting his clothes on fire, Merlin grit his teeth and reached with his magical senses to ensure the others had gotten out, and relieved to sense no presence behind him, he decided it was high time he got out of there.

And he needed to do it fast.

Morgana, streams of tears and streaks of filth marking her face, taunted with a rather maniacal laugh, "Come on, _Emrys_. You can do better than that! _Hit me_." (3)

His eyebrows shot upward. "If you insist, Morgana."

At his wordless command, the large stone disintegrated, and after it conglomerated into a cloud of sand before him, he twirled his fingers, causing the dust to swirl lazily about his head. The only warning she had was a quick, wily smirk, accentuated by the light and shadows of the flames flashing across his face, before he extended his hand, spread his fingers, and said simply, "_Pricae_." (4)

The cloud of dust ceased its slow, flowing movements, and all at once, it shuddered in midair before the whole mass shot itself toward Morgana.

He could see the skepticism in her eyes and the sneer on her lips—she obviously saw no threat in a cloud of _dust _becauseit _was _only dust after all_—_and assumed that she didn't hear his spell over the roar of the flames. If she _had_ heard his spell, she would have known better than to stand and laugh and actually _defend _herself, but Morgana, arrogant and forever underestimating him, did just that. She stood and laughed. Her haughty laughter immediately morphed into shrieks of pain as the particles of sand hit and _bit_ her exposed face, and the moment her hands flew up in a half-baked attempt to protect herself from the stinging dust, Merlin covered his nose with his sleeve, ran to the ragged hole he created in the wall, and leapt through, turning only to force a section of the ceiling to collapse behind him.

~…~

Of all the stupid things Merlin had done in the years that he had known him, Arthur was sure that this had been the stupidest of them.

And yes, he had been prepared to _kill _him if—_when_ they made it out of this godforsaken dungeon complex and _when _Merlin decided to give them the ability to move again. There had been no doubt of that.

In the meantime, however, unable to move, unable to do anything at _all—_no thanks to Merlin's damn habit of putting everyone else's safety before his own—the frustrated king had watched helplessly, _anxiously, _as the two powerful magic-users danced andas the blisters on Merlin's hands, blisters that the warlock had been making a great effort to hide from his foe and blisters that obviously _hurt _him in more than the physical sense, became angry, angry black-red from Morgana's fireballs.

And when the warlock's shoulders and stance had begun to stiffen oh-so subtly, when Morgana's feral grin had begun to look more demonic than human, her eyes blazing with unholy power…

All Arthur had been able to do was clench his jaw tighter, grit his teeth with more force, and join the others—with the exception of a pale-faced Lot, whose injuries and pain finally caught up with him—in yelling and pounding on the shield because _what in the world was he thinking? _

It had just proved to the king that the warlock _hadn't been _thinking, of course. Not that he ever did in the first place.

Though Arthur had to admit…when Merlin had (very stupidly) provoked Morgana into losing control of not only her own magic but also the instrument through which she was _channeling_ her magic and when the bloody _fire_ had erupted, he couldn't deny that Merlin's brilliance and true intelligence in the face of an impossible situation was…beyond anything he had ever seen or experienced from any of his knights.

All it had taken was a simple glance, and Arthur, completely unaware of what his warlock had planned, possessing a faith in his friend that even he couldn't begin to describe—Arthur had been ready.

So when the wall did explode (_brilliant)_, giving them access to the more spacious, significantly less dangerous room, the king was already moving, and to shock his companions out of their inevitable confusion and hesitation, he lowered the arm covering his nose and ordered, "Let's go!"

He only looked back long enough to see that Kay had enlisted Percival's help in supporting Lot, who appeared to be only half-conscious, and to see Merlin shoot a boulder at Morgana before he redirected his attention to ensuring he didn't injure himself on any of the fallen debris…

In retrospect, he should have realized how _stupid _it had been to jump through the hole firstwhen he hadn't a single weapon to his name and how utterly foolish it had been to forget that just because he was escaping one dangerous situation… well, it didn't necessarily mean that he was stepping into a _less_ dangerous one.

He was _never_ that lucky.

A flash of light and movement from the corner of his eye was the only warning Arthur had, and it was only thanks to his instincts that he was able to shout out a wordless warning to his men and roll out of the way before the sword came crashing down upon the piece of masonry on which he had been perched only seconds before.

Arthur landed hard, and stumbling forward, he hardly had the chance to regain his footing before he _sensed _another attack whistling through the air towards his head. With the incredible intuition only a warrior could possess, he knew that if he _did _catch his balance, he'd be skewered or beheaded immediately from behind, so he forced himself to ignore the very human instinct to catch himself and instead fell flat on his chest. When he flipped over onto his back and saw that his confident assailant had put too much force into his swing and _hadn't_ been expecting to hit _air, _Arthur smirked and kicked his legs up to strike the man in the ribs and help him on his way.

The resulting _thud _of the dead-eyed man's body when Arthur sent him sailing over his head was quite satisfying.

When an unexpected echo followed, Arthur, now realizing that _there were more there, _felt his heart jump to his throat, and after quickly scrambling to his feet, he saw Kay withdrawing his blood-stained sword and grimacing at the corpse of the first man who'd attacked the king.

Behind Kay, he saw that his knights, though outnumbered, had already begun to make good work of disposing of any of Morgana's puppets and of keeping them off of him while he was down, and itching to join them, Arthur's eyes critically scanned the weapon-filled chambers in search for a well-balanced sword.

However, the ex-knight caught his attention, and he said, "Here."

The king caught the tossed sword by the hilt instinctively and was about to protest, but Kay smirked mischievously and shook his head as he slipped a few of his hidden throwing daggers from his jacket. The two men locked eyes and smiled—_like old times_—and after exchanging a nod, they joined the fray.

With Arthur and Percival, who had taken Lot to a corner in which he'd be safe from the fighting, rejoining Lancelot and Gwaine and with Kay making a few drop like flies with his precisely aimed throws, it was almost too easy to defeat the rest of the ambush.

And when Arthur's brain finally caught up with his actions…and the consequences of said actions, pity nearly consumed him, and he unsheathed Kay's sword from his last opponent with a furrowed brow.

_They didn't ask for this. They didn't deserve this._

Shaking his head, Arthur redirected his attention to his men, and after reassuring himself that they weren't injured, he ordered, "Be on the look-out for more of them." Almost immediately, the question that followed was, "Has Merlin…?"

The lack of his warlock's presence in the room was answer enough, and a prick of ice-cold fear seized his innards as he, tightening his grip on his borrowed sword, set his jaw and prepared to leap back into the flames to get the idiot…

Before he had the chance to even take a step forward, however, there was a sudden, rumbling crash that jarred Arthur to the bone, and he had to turn his face away from the wave of dust that came billowing his way.

The warlock's name echoed throughout the room as each of them came to the realization that the ceiling had collapsed…

And as if by magic, a grimy-faced Merlin, his eyes still gold, emerged from the dust and rubble.

~…~

Guinevere, chest heaving, darted among the rows of bookcases, and despite the fluttering and swooping of her heart and the panic-induced haste at which she moved, she still found it in her to mutter agitatedly under her breath about _sassy _doors because o_f course _Merlin would not only lock his main chambers with magic but also leave an absolutely _charming_ personalized message for whoever came by and tried to get in.

She supposed in her case, it was more like _break in_, but all the same, she was going to have to give him a little lecture about what he chose to enchant and _how _he chose to enchant said items at all because some of the insults that his door dealt her weren't particularly friendly or tasteful.

And it was a huge inconvenience to the queen—not being able to get in, that is—because _she absolutely needed to get in_.

At least she should be grateful that she'd been one of the few entrusted with the location of Merlin's secret backdoor, but at this point, with her thoughts tumbling over and over themselves, Gaius' infamous _look _branded into her mind,and his _tone…._

_"What—what are they, Gaius?" Gwen croaked in a whisper as they hurried to help the infirmary, where they were awaiting the first flood of injured men._

_ "Crocotta," the elderly man said immediately, his tone clipped. "How she managed…"_

_ When he trailed off, Gwen's brows knitted together, and she prompted worriedly, "Gaius?"_

_ The physician avoided her eyes, but there was no disguising the familiar, ominous, and grave look on his face when he said, "Little is known about them, but from what I've read, I know that there are _no_ accounts of anyone in myth, legend, or history being able to command a pack of them, Guinevere. Not even the Summoners, who were trained specifically to bring demons to this world and harness their slaves' magic and power for themselves—not even _they_ are said to have been able to tame them. Those who tried only succeeded in physically _bringing_ them to this world, but they either lost their Crocotta to the wild or were eaten alive, unless they managed to kill the beast first. From what I can tell, summoning one and surviving the encounter was a rite of passage for young men looking for brides."_

_ Gwen cringed at Gaius' blunt depiction of the barbaric people, but when he paused and gave her an apologetic look, she simply motioned with her hand for him to continue. _

_And he did, taking more care with his words. "Crocotta might have limited magical ability, but that is one thing that sets them apart from other creatures whose origins can be traced to the demon-realm. The other demons—gargoyles, wyverns, basilisks—they can be easily controlled and manipulated by dark magic, and that is why, after the Summoners died out during the Dark Wars and left their demons without masters, some monsters like the wyvern were never banished back to the shadow-realm and instead began to reproduce here. Crocotta, as I said, are the opposite, and they are far harder to come by on the mortal plane for just that reason. There was some vague speculation that their poison has _some_ type of anti-magic element that prevents them from being controlled, but the ancients were not clear about the properties of the poison beyond that of its lethal affects on the human body, and they often allude to obscure histories and stories that we no longer have access to."_

_"And yet… somehow Morgana managed it," Gwen murmured._

_"Yes," Gaius said, beginning to descend the stairs they had just reached with surprising speed for someone his age. "And I cannot fathom how. They might crave human flesh and have the ability to mimic their prey, but they are _supposed_ to be comparable to wolves in intelligence, instinct, and behavior, so they obviously do not have the capacity to care for more than their territory, their mates, their hierarchy within the pack, and their next hunt. It doesn't add up. With no loyalty to humans, with their resistance to the Summoners' power, and with most of the Summoners' knowledge _lost_ after the Dark Wars, she _shouldn't_ have been able to form an army of them to do her bidding, let alone have enough control to make one of them _speak_ for her." _

_Head spinning with the influx of information, Gwen frowned, and after rubbing her forehead, she pointed out, "That's the second time you've mentioned the Dark Wars, Gaius."_

_ "The Old Religion has its own history, Gwen. Before these wars, dark magic reigned supreme, and two great leaders of magic fought to determine the future of dark practices—necromancy, Summoning, Binding… In the end, those fighting the abuse of such practices prevailed, but only a _few_ legends tell us what truly happened, and even if fragmented and incomplete, they are horrifying accounts. The Druids and several powerful, powerful forces of the Old Religion—" his voice suddenly grew soft as realization dawned upon him "—guard what remains of the knowledge that couldn't be completely destroyed. No one but the guardians knows… just how much of that information remains in this world."_

_Her throat suddenly became drier than desert sand, and biting her lip, she asked hesitantly, "And you said… the Summoners' magic died with them? As a result of these Dark Wars? When all of their practices and history… was either destroyed or locked away?"_

_ When Gaius met her wide eyes, she didn't need to hear an answer. They had reached the same conclusion: something guarded, something hidden—no matter how closely guarded, no matter how well hidden—could be found, could be exploited…_

_ Knowing Morgana, she would have stopped at nothing to find the information she needed to get what she wanted, and knowing _Morgause_, who was a High Priestess, there was no telling what information and powerful allies she had bequeathed to her sister upon her death._

_ And despite the fact that it was completely unrealistic to assume that Gaius knew something—if not _everything_—there was to know about magical threats, she _still_ somehow, deep down, _depended_ on Gaius to _know_ these things, and it scared her to realize that this was something he could not shed light on without doubting his own words… because now that it was clear that Morgana had knowledge in her hands that they didn't, it made all of what Gaius _did_ know about these beasts nothing more than mere inference, guesswork. _

_ "I fear that we are blind, Gwen. Who _knows_ what sort of enchantments she's uncovered? And how would we know…until they're used against us and we realize that our swords and our magic won't be enough against her?"_

_ The words chilled her to the bone, but after biting her lip and averting her eyes so that they were fixed in front of her, she said sternly, "We shouldn't lose hope, Gaius, even if the questions you ask are logical, troubling ones that don't necessarily inspire hope. The shields are up now, the Druids probably hold a great deal of secret knowledge that you, Morgana, or I don't have ourselves and that can and _will_ benefit us, Kilgharrah is on his way to find Merlin and Arthur, and the mutts—" they had reached the infirmary by this point, and she quickly pushed the doors open "—we've seen that, unlike the griffin, they can be killed by a mortal weapon, and that's all that matters right now, isn't it?" Even to her own ears, she sounded like she was trying to convince herself. "What more do we need to know about—?"_

_ Gaius' sudden gasp of revelation cut her off, and he grabbed her arm as he exclaimed, "The book_! _My Lady, the _book!"

_"I—I don't—" Gwen stuttered, brow furrowed in confusion at the excited physician._

_"_The _book," the elderly man stressed in a whisper, and somehow, that was all she needed, and a large, hopeful smile began to spread across her face. _

_Because if there was ever a book that would have forbidden, dangerous information in it that might help them, it would be _that _one. It had helped them once before, after all. (5)_

_"After we decided that it was too dangerous for us to study in depth, Merlin took it to the Vaults—he told us as much when Hunith was here—but once…"_

_Gwen's eyes widened as she recalled Merlin, not too long ago, telling her and Arthur in private that he'd feel more comfortable with it near him…_

_"His chambers." Gwen whispered, and she only caught sight of the physician's nod before he was summoned by one of the Druid healers._

_ And even when she started to run, she found she couldn't get to the library fast enough_.

Gwen shook her head, and as she ran up to the wall of books she was _sure—_or at least somewhat sure—housed the backdoor and began to test the lower shelves for the trigger, she thought that, yes, it'd be a _miracle _if she could remember the right bookcase, and considering _all _the bookcases in the East Wing look _remarkably _alike, it—

"Yes!" she exclaimed when one shelf, the third she tried, sank beneath her weight and began to shift.

The revolving door hardly stopped moving by the time Gwen jumped off the platform into Merlin's chambers, and after taking a look around, she realized that finding the secret _door_ was the least of her problems.

Merlin had clearly been taking advantage of his new rooms, and without a tidy Gaius to be on him about cleaning up after himself, Gwen could assume with the utmost certainty that he had settled in quite nicely and was enjoying his independence. Books were stacked in precarious piles on his worktable, benches, and little sitting room, and amongst the books, a hodgepodge of scraps of parchment, full of Merlin's scrawl, quills, vials, herbs, and _clothes_ were thrown about. What looked like several half-completed potions, each still smoking interesting colors and shapes, might she add, took up any surface that hadn't already been claimed by some of his stacks of books.

All in all, it looked as though a tornado hit, and she was supposed to find a _single_ bookin this mess?

Biting her lip and scanning the room, Gwen turned in a slow circle and ran one hand through her hair, and with a sinking heart, she realized that this wasn't just any book. It was _the _book, as Gaius had emphasized, and it was this book that Merlin should have and _would have _hidden, guarded…

Knowing Merlin, he could have surrounded it with incredible wards and enchantments and stuck it into the wall for safekeeping, or he could have spelled it to be invisible or to appear as something else to any viewer's eyes or to divert one's attention from it. Or he could have placed it in a magically locked chest that would only open at his touch…

Gods, what was she going to _do_? Unlike her husband, she had no illusions about Merlin's ingenuity and cleverness, and with his tendency to play around with magic as he did, she hadn't any clue where to _start _because it wasn't as though he would just tuck it under a floorboard beneath his bed…

She froze and blinked.

"You _didn't_, Merlin," she mumbled to herself, her optimism returning to her.

But he _did_. For all his inventiveness and for all of his new freedom, he was still a man of habit, and that was where he hid his first spell book, after all, the only spell book he had had before all this, the one from which he learned and became what and who he was today; it was his most dear possession, with the exception of his cloak. Beyond that, she knew just how the magic of _the_ book affected him and Arthur because of the prophecies it contained within. For him, there would be no better place to store it when he was sleeping because he'd be comforted to _feel _it there during the night hours, and considering past experiences with Camelot's guards, he knew they _never_ would check for loose floorboards…

And any enemy—and any _friend, _for that matter—would expect it to be hidden by an excessive and powerful array of spells, and the few who would ever suspect he'd hide it in such a mundane place would dismiss it as silly because the Court Sorcerer wouldn't be _stupid_ enough to actually _do _it.

_Genius_.

The queen maneuvered through Merlin's mess as quickly as she could, and upon reaching the small staircase hugging the back wall, Gwen scurried up to Merlin's loft and practically launched herself under the bed to check for loose floorboards. It was easy enough to find, but once she removed the board, she hesitated uncertainly, knowing full well that, while the book was hidden _here_ of all places, the warlock would not neglect to add a few protective charms to prevent it from being stolen.

However, she had little time for hesitation, and after coming to the assumption seconds later that Merlin would have (hopefully) anticipated something like this occurring, Gwen recklessly thrust her hand into the secret compartment under the bed and felt a strange, numbing sensation run up her arm when her fingers brushed its cover. With a hiss, she withdrew her hand and, memories flashing before her eyes, whirled around to grab a random article of clothing lying on the floor nearby to use to remove the book without touching it.

The tunic made the book almost slippery in her hands, but when it was out, she flipped excess fabric over the cover, tucked it under her arm, and didn't bother looking back.

Not even when the entire castle shook.

Several maidservants Gwen passed when she burst out of the library cried out and nearly fell to their knees at the unexpected force of the tremor, but the queen was lucky enough to have caught herself before taking a tumble.

Heart caught in her throat, she swallowed hard, reestablished her gait, and craned her neck to see what she could through the windows as she ran by.

The shield above Camelot was shimmering unnaturally, wavering, rippling like living water.

The next window…it stabilized itself again, and drawing a breath of relief, she skirted a corner sharply and found herself running toward another window that opened up to the skies under which Morgana's army had approached. Here, a peppering of smaller magical attacks—attacks that Gwen was well aware were nonetheless powerful ones—as well as wyverns and other winged beasts were pounding upon the dome, and she grinned weakly to see it absorb each shock at the point of impact with an effect of shattered glass.

Another tremor, this one even larger than the first, struck just as Gwen skidded through the infirmary door. Chest heaving, she wiped her brow and took a moment to catch her breath, only to freeze, stare, and find herself unable to breathe at all.

Several men, unconscious and pale as ghosts, sported oozing poisonous green wounds so ghastly that Gwen, who was feeling lightheaded and sick enough from her sprint from Merlin's chambers and from the worry, the _incessant worry_, and fear gnawing at her, nearly gagged.

And the bile rose when she saw Gaius in discussion with the Druid healers and the Druid healers in discussion with the conscious injured and the younger helpers, all of whom were shaking their heads and frowning as they worked, and all sympathetic eyes were turned to the men lying in bed with green limbs.

Several maids carrying fresh linens rushed in from behind Gwen, startling her out of her disgusted and horrified shock, and after schooling her expression, she propelled herself toward a lonely corner and shifted the book from under her arm.

"Gaius!" she called breathlessly to get his attention.

With a quick look in her direction, the old physician barked a few orders and excused himself immediately after he saw to it that his patients were all appropriately being cared for.

"They were bitten," Gwen murmured in a broken whisper as he approached.

"Yes," Gaius said wearily. "All we can do is ease the pain, and that in itself is a blessing."

She swallowed hard. "There is no cure?"

"None, I'm afraid. Now, come. Let's see what this can tell us."

Eyes flashing to the book and back, she was about to voice her fears and ask what they were to do if the information they sought wasn't contained within it, but she was interrupted by her brother, who just entered the healing rooms supporting an exhausted, protesting Leon.

After exchanging a quick look with her, Elyan muttered a few things to the Druid who'd appeared to help, and when Leon opened his mouth again, she heard her brother say in exasperation, "Just _rest _for a minute, Leon! I mean it!"

She'd never heard _anyone _speak that way to Leon, who was unofficially Arthur's second-in-command, before—if the situation wasn't so serious, she might have laughed to see Elyan's scolding finger and Leon's petulant reluctance—and her brow furrowed as her brother sighed, rubbed his forehead, and trotted to them.

"He got in a tussle with one of the dogs," Elyan explained. Eyes widening at the horror on his sister's face, he was quick to add, "No, no! He's alright. He wasn't injured and jumped right up to continue fighting, but when his swings became sloppy, I knew I had to get him here to rest or he _would _be hurt."

Gwen's expression softened, and she asked, "What is it like out there? Anything to report?"

"Something recalled them—or most of them at least; a few are still lusting for blood. I can't explain it, but those that retreated stopped _simultaneously, _Gwen."

At these words, Gwen finally handed the book to Gaius, who started flipping through the pages instantly. "And the army?"

"Let's just say…I hope Kilgharrah returns with Arthur and Merlin. Some of these demons cannot be fought from the ground, and I heard several of the magicians on our side saying it'd be difficult to tackle such a large swarm of them with magic if they broke through, and launching an attack them now, during this near standstill, is near impossible when they're flying so high. And I'm sure you know that Morgana's sorcerers have been attempting to break the shield. It's only a matter of time."

A few ideas and tactics came to light and were shot down nearly as soon as they appeared, and suddenly, Gwen felt her knees trembling at the pressure of the overwhelming wave that threatened to crash upon her.

_Who was she kidding_? Who was she to play queen and order these men to their deaths with a plan of hers? She couldn't—

"Ah!" Gaius said suddenly, slamming the book down onto a table. "Here!"

Gwen might not have been able to understand the language the text was written in, but she needn't understand at all. Not with the picture there.

Because the shadows, the smoky shapes of nightmares, all pouring from a single double-handled vessel, a vessel upon which a ring fully formed beasts fixed their glowing, glazed red eyes—that spoke louder than words.

"It controls demons… Summons them from both the shadow-realm as well as calls them from their homes on the mortal plane," the physician said, eyes scanning the page. "The vessel was supposedly destroyed—and the pieces supposedly scattered across the lands—but oh, here—'the two together could do more terrible things than one alone.' It must have had a twin that was lost to history." Looking up, Gaius concluded somberly, "This is how she did it."

"How she…amassed her army," Elyan murmured, his lips pulling into a thin line.

"This—" Unaffected by the grimness that seemed to posses the other men, Gwen began to smile, newfound determination swallowing the cold pit of self-doubt and fear that had control of her these past few hours "—if we could destroy the vessel, her monsters—"

Gaius shook his head furiously and interrupted, "No. This was a false hope, Gwen. I'm sorry."

After blinking in astonishment, she demanded, "What was the purpose of us researching this if we weren't going to use the information to our advantage?"

"Because this book sheds no light on how the first twin was destroyed, and without that information…"

"What chance to we have?" Elyan finished, arms crossing.

Gaius sighed and added, "And besides that, I thought we might be able to break any enchantment she cast over them with a powerful enough counter-spell from within our walls. I did _not _expect a physical artifact, though I should have. Whichever one Morgana has—be it the shattered one reconstructed or the missing one—it is most likely in the very heart of her army, fiercely protected by the worst of the demons she could control with it, and even with all likelihood that it is nearby—something of that much power has its limits—we have no idea if it _can _be used from a distance. If that is the case and it _doesn't _have to within a certain perimeter, it could be with Morgana herself right now or somewhere far away…where none of us can touch it."

"But it may be the _only_ chance we have, Gaius!" Gwen cried passionately, completely unaware her voice had raised a few decibels and several nearby healers had looked over. "Destroying this thing would ensure our victory here today, minimize our losses, cripple Morgana…"

Elyan's eyes narrowed at his sister, and he supported Gaius by exclaiming, "It would be suicide to attempt! And we _are _outnumbered! _Greatly _outnumbered. Any offensive would be _crushed. _No, we need to stick to the plan, and we need to have all our fighters here when the shield fails and when they storm the city. We _have to_ hold them back, and if we want to drive them off for good, we cannot waste time trying to find a vessel that may or may not be capable of being destroyed through normal means!"

And just like that, Gwen's hopes came crashing down in a blazing inferno. She visibly deflated as the hope she'd accumulated was slowly and painfully extracted by the complete and utter _logic _in their words.

Elyan's hand was on her shoulder, and she was tempted to shrug it off. "We have to use the skills we have to do what we do best. Now's not the time for experimenting. I'm sorry that this endeavor for knowledge hadn't been more fruitful."

But his apology fell on deaf ears because they were right. Absolutely right. Every last one of their sorcerers and knights was needed to protect Camelot and all the good and beauty that it held in its walls and in its people. They could not lose, not after everything they've done to bring Albion to its golden age, and they _wouldn't _lose. No, they wouldn't…because Gwen was neither going to send their fighters to their certain deaths by launching an attack nor remove any fighter from his place here in Camelot to act as a spy to infiltrate the army to find something that may well be unattainable and indestructible.

It just _hurt_ so damn much to know that that something may very well be key to preventing so much suffering and to _feel _in her gut that Gaius and Elyan's worries about it being among the enemy were unwarranted.

It was here. She _knew _it.

Frustrated tears built in her eyes and threatened to spill, and turning her face away to brush at them and drawing a shaky breath, her gaze landed on one of the bitten men, who had woken and was staring soullessly at the ceiling and who's wound…

In retrospect, she supposed it was lucky that she was looking in the direction of the bites. Otherwise, they would have suspected something when she flinched, and she wouldn't have been able to pass off the sudden movement on her squeamishness.

"You are right," Gwen said carefully. Pretending not to notice the two men's looks of relief at her acceptance, she continued, "The definite risks outweigh the potential benefits, and every man is needed right here in the city."

_But she wasn't._

~…~

"Merlin!"

Arthur, a borrowed and _bloodied _sword in hand, and the others looked absolutely relieved to see him when he stumbled to his feet and ran away from the wreckage he'd created, which did a nice job of smothering the smoke as well as the flames, thank you very much, and the warlock took the time to look around and see each of his friends safe and none the worse for wear after the fire and after what looked like a surprise attack from Morgana's men, if the bodies and blood was anything to go by. "Is everyone alright?" he asked all the same.

"Never mind that, mate! You were in there for too long, and when this lot leapt out of nowhere…" Gwaine said, nudging over the last man he'd slain with his toe.

"We were seconds away from going after you when you didn't come out," Kay added quietly.

Arthur squeezed his shoulder, an action that spoke more to him than any amount of words, and Merlin felt it when the king suddenly tensed. "Where's Morgana?" he asked sternly, casting his eyes over his warlock's shoulder. The sapphire eyes widened, and throwing his hand out to point, he shouted, "Merlin! Excalibur!"

Whipping around, Merlin immediately understood his king's indirect order when he saw the legendary sword glinting on the ground through the empty doorway, where Morgana must have dropped it after she had flung up her hands to protect her face from his stinging dust cloud. A flood of frantic relief and hope surged through him, and he called the sword to him…

A pale hand snatched at its hilt just as it began to obey his summons, and unprepared, Merlin was thrown backward by a wave of magic. Luckily, he had been practicing a defense against such spells and had been practicing it so that he could react instinctively, and instead of colliding with the wall and ending up with a smarting head and swirling vision, he manipulated the air around him into a cushion that counteracted the force of her spell, and he landed on his feet just in time to see Morgana, blood streaming from numerous, tiny lacerations on her face, neck, and hands, emerge.

Panic rose in his throat as Morgana, whose dress was now more white than black, solidified her grip on the sword.

"Dammit," he swore, partially because he botched his chance to reclaim Excalibur and partially because his knees were beginning to tremble from fatigue and partially because his burnt hands were screaming with every twitch of his fingers and partially because the wards surrounding his friends had weakened and he'd have to recast them and furthermore refocus his concentration in _maintaining_ them…

And oh _dear_, she didn't look particularly pleased with him, did she?

* * *

><p>(1) Translation: Break to pieces!<p>

(2) Translation: Avert and shoot stone!

(3) Another reference to the Joker

(4) Translation: Prick/Sting.

(5) Reminder – this is the same book of prophecies and histories of magic that helped the gang discover what the Gvarath was in SMN

AN: There will come a day when there will be no more building suspense, no more games, and no more cliffhangers, but that day really isn't today. ;) I truly hope that all of the Gwen stuff made sense and wasn't completely unrealistic or poorly thought out. I tried to smooth all the rough edges, but eh. Next chapter hopefully up in a few weeks at most.

Oz out


	25. Part III: Playing With Fire

AN: Lemme just... breathe for a moment.

~6k of HALF of the magic battle (tough to write, let me tell you...little worried about that one), ~1k Gwen POV, ~1k Kay POV (FUN TIMES, MY FRIENDS)...and somehow there's an extra 2k added in there to equal 'round 10k.

I don't know what happened, but I hope you appreciate it anyway, even if I did a shoddy job of editing because it's kinda very late again.

In record time too...and before a Physics quiz tomorrow. :s Speaking of studying though, the biggest exam of my life (the PCAT - Pharmacy College Admission Test) is coming up next month, so I'm warning you now that the next chapter may take a little while, and I apologize in advance for that. Also, another apology is in order for a few of you: I'm rather behind on responding to PMs. *apologetic grin*

Well. Happy belated birthday, Ocean Mint Leaves! Sorry I couldn't get an update for you on your real birthday, and I hope you enjoy the blast from the past I added into the first scene for you (you'll see what I mean ;P). So, with that, everyone please enjoy *mumbles speedily under breath* Part 3 of 4 *runs out of room*

* * *

><p><strong>Part III: Playing With Fire<strong>

_Panic rose in his throat as Morgana, whose dress was now more white than black, solidified her grip on the sword._

_"Dammit," he swore, partially because he botched his chance to reclaim Excalibur and partially because his knees were beginning to tremble from fatigue and partially because his burnt hands were screaming with every twitch of his fingers and partially because the wards surrounding his friends had weakened and he'd have to recast them and furthermore refocus his concentration in __maintaining__ them…_

_And oh _dear_, she didn't look particularly pleased with him, did she?_

…

"You little _rat_," Morgana hissed, stalking into the main room.

The knights and king brandished their swords in preparation, but only Merlin saw the flare in her _aura_, a sign, a warning…

He stumbled between the knights and his opponent without thinking and watched her unblinkingly, and gritting his teeth against the pain shooting up his trembling hands, he felt some of his magic, taking no heed of its master's will to focus itself in the shields, slowly crawl its way to his burned fingers, which curled unwillingly towards his palm and felt as thick as blocks of wood for all the flexibility and responsiveness they had.

His mother, Gaius, _and_ Arthur always _did _tell him not to play with fire, he recalled almost ludicrously, a dark smile twitching at his lips.

Not that it had ever once stopped him from threading flames through his fingers or from making animals of smoke and embers or from simply poking at the campfire with a big stick…

Or from toying with highly unstable sorceresses who just so _happened _to have the most revolting, mind-tainting magic he'd ever before witnessed.

He didn't notice the flames leaping from his fingers, caressing his hand and washing away the touch of Morgana's own fire…

And he raised it, still trembling with not only the Lybb's kiss still lingering in his system but also with the shock of his failures—for what else was it to have _allowed_ her come this far? To have allowed her to weaken his magic in the first place? To have allowed her to get so close to destroying Arthur and Kay? To have allowed her to have gotten her army to Camelot so easily? To have allowed her to still have Excalibur in hand? What else could he call it?

And yet he raised it, still trembling, to Morgana because despite his failures and despite the fire he was playing with, fire that only grew hotter and more angry with every poke and prod, he would fight to fix all the wrongs, all of the mistakes he made in ignorance.

And by the gods, if it came to it, he would make it so that this fire was extinguished and unable to burn Camelot ever again.

The stone was warm in his pocket, and without even attempting to reach for it with his mind to tap into its vast stores of energy, it acted of its own accord, and he could feel its warmth seeping into his jittery extremities and into his _magic, _which, as his head would have done had he taken one of Gaius' hangover remedies after a night in the tavern with Gwaine, blinked its blurry vision clear and ceased its flighty and wild _spinning_.

Judging by the nearly inconspicuous looks the knights were sending from the corners of their eyes, it obviously wasn't enough to make him _appear_ as though he felt any stronger for it, but he wasn't about to let that bother him, not when the energy he'd just received from the stone began to reweave the broken projective enchantments around his friends.

Morgana's scowl of rage suddenly twisted into a smirk, and her pale eyes haughtily scanned him like a farmer would a prize heifer. "What? No more energy to pull cheap tricks hidden up your sleeve, _Merlin_? Out of ideas?"

Growing weary and frankly sick of her taunting, Merlin did not respond, and finally, _finally _hedecided to hell with focusing solely on defense. After what happened in the smaller room, his head had begun to pound, and with his magic and physical strength fading while Morgana's stamina and magic were being continuously bolstered by Excalibur on top of that, he knew he had to end this soon, or he'd collapse (even _with _the stone in his possession) before Kilgharrah, who was still too far from Livandir for Merlin's liking, made an appearance.

It was time to take a risk, and it was about time that _he _dictated this fight.

Unfortunately, it didn't quite work out in his favor when Percival, his pale eyes flaring, stated in his defense, "You obviously don't know Merlin well, my Lady."

"And you, Sir Knight," she sneered, her lips splitting further and oozing with beads of blood, "obviously need to be taught a little lesson about your precious Merlin."

_Aura _leaping like an uncontrollable bonfire, black tendrils growing like weeds from the flares of her disgusting magic, shadows clinging to her like a second skin…

Words more ancient and dark than Merlin could comprehend spilled like vomit from her mouth, and her eyes were dark gold, blazing with demonic power.

"Move!" Merlin shouted, causing the knights to scatter without question, and he erected a shield before him just in time.

The black vipers simultaneously shot forward, and with the exception of the one that ran into his shield with enough force to make the warlock skid backwards and cause his arms to tremble, each head struck mere _centimeters _from where his friends had been standing and left cracked stone in their wake. While Percival's viper missed him _and _the floor completely and had instead hit a bench, causing it to erupt into splinters and send a whole array of weapons careening to the floor, Arthur and Lancelot stumbled at the ripple aftereffect of the strike nearest them, and Gwaine was sent sprawling. Kay, too, managed to both avoid his—unintentionally it seemed—and despite the invisible shock of the tendril's attack, he miraculously still managed to hold his position and shield Lot from the shards of broken floor and wood shooting his way.

Breathing heavily, Merlin eyed the tendrils as they withdrew with a speed equal to that of their attack, and in doing so, he raised his flame-encased hand once more and barked, "Áslít!" (1)

The golden fire streamed toward one of the writhing heads, and he was only just able to dodge one of its friend's snapping jaws and send yet another bolt of condensed fire to slice the tendril in half before Morgana could demand it's retreat. Morgana's form seemed to buckle at the heart of the shadowy black magic as, hissing and screeching, the decapitated vipers flailed in what appeared to be what the warlock could only describe as agony, and Merlin felt a smirk touch his lips.

He did the natural thing: a bolt formed in his hand, and after sculpting the energy into a curve, he threw it like one of those interesting contraptions called _boomerangs_ he had read about in one of Gaius' exotic, rare history books.

Well, it would have been _really _effective and rather impressive if he knew how to throw a boomerang correctly, but he would have to make do with the satisfaction of distracting Morgana from assaulting them again, even though he would have preferred that his projectile flew a _little _more true and loped off a few more of those heads.

"What the hell are you doing, Merlin?" Arthur exclaimed when his rapid shots, after hitting their targets (or missing them _completely_), rebounded against the ceiling, shook the entire room, and sent shavings of stone raining down on them.

Without thinking, Merlin turned to his king with a cocked brow and look of mocking disbelief on his face because _honestly_, did he not _see_…?

No, no, they _didn't _see—that much was obvious by the way they looked around the room with frantic eyes as they tried to predict the next attack and by the way they took turns staring in utter confusion at him, Morgana, the cracked stone, and demolished bench alternatively—and Merlin cursed under his breath.

If they couldn't see, they couldn't fight. And more importantly, without knowing what and where the damn thing was, they couldn't avoid attacks should one of the vipers slip past his defenses.

Thinking quickly, Merlin fumbled for words and began to incant, "_Íewaþ mín __þære_—"

Morgana's shrill, manic laughter interrupted him, and his eyes widened in horror as she, too, began to chant…

The vipers shuddered visibly, and a shimmer of emerald green raced down their lengths, conglomerating at the severed stump where Merlin's golden bolts of fire had dismembered the two heads…

Recovering quickly, he turned back to his friends and finished the incantation. "—_bescéawodnesse __him!" _(2)

A vague haze settled over his vision, and shaking his head to clear the effects of casting such a crude, hasty spell, he heard Kay breathe, "Hell."

When his eyes cleared, Merlin blinked once and thought that there was no word more apt than that to describe what was happening before him.

"It's a damn _Hydra_!" the warlock hissed, taking a few steps back so that he was next to Arthur and crouching as low as his burning muscles would allow.

Because yes, the bloody thing was indeed a damn _Hydra_, and in accordance with the ancient Greek myths—in the place of the each severed head, _two more grew in its place_.

That was when Merlin realized this wasn't just a mere manipulation of Morgana's magic and an illusion enhanced by the sword with physical _enough_ characteristics to draw blood. No, this thing…was something else. Something _alive_. Something that needed to be banished back to the world from which it came.

If the thing wasn't so dangerous and _wrong_—because as he watched the emerald magic's movements through the shadowy necks and as he watched those heads reform, he now understood that the beast was _feeding _off of Morgana like a leech and was using her magic (and by extension, _Excalibur's_) as an anchor to this world—and if he wasn't so concerned about the _heads _and where they'd strike next_, _Merlin might have found it morbidly fascinating.

"What has _happened _to her, Merlin?" Arthur mumbled in a torn, stressed voice, eyes never once leaving the multi-headed shadow-beast.

Before Merlin could so much as shake his head at his king, Morgana sang, "Sur-pri-i-se." And as she raised her hands and displayed Excalibur to them, the vipers, now fully formed and fully functional, reared their heads…

Gathering his strength and signaling the others to duck with an abrupt gesture of his hand, Merlin shouted, "_Áhladeþaþ __þæt íren_!" (3)

Daggers, swords, maces, and weapons of every shape and size heeded his command, and pushing his hand toward the beast, he barked, "_Ábiernaþ!" _(4)

Just as the Hydra heads shot towards them again, mouths gaping and fangs forming, each weapon Merlin had under his control glowed red-hot and met the shadows half way. With sweat dripping into his eyes, the warlock didn't wait to see the damage done to the beast or to the room, and guided by an instinct he didn't quite understand and by the knowledge that he would have to land a lethal blow to the thing's "heart" to prevent its heads from growing back again, he tugged viciously at his core, drawing what could only be described as pure energyinto his palm.

And there were two heads. Two heads had been unharmed.

_Damn faulty aim. No time._

He had to shoot while she was distracted by the Hydra's regeneration…

Morgana's smirk, highlighted by the eerie glow of emerald green, broadened, and in order to press her advantage, she ignored the injured heads, one of which lay like a dead body in a small puddle of spilt Lybb and broken glass, yelled and threw her arms wide. At her command, they each shot in separate directions…

_Distraction didn't work, then_, Merlin thought, mind racing._ No time. There is no time_. _Have to take the chance…_

But one of the heads was shooting towards him and the other, towards Lancelot and Percival…

_Too fast. No time. There is no time._

And Merlin halved the powerful magic in his hand and hurled both balls of energy, which split across the room like a lightning bolt, too fast for the eye to see…

"Merlin!"

Arthur's body collided with his, and skidding across the floor, Merlin realized immediately that the king, in his heroic endeavor to push him out of the way, had idiotically put himself in harm's way, and with fear threatening to swell his throat closed, it took barely the smallest amount of conscious thought on his part to knock Arthur to the side with a wave of his hand.

The attacking Hydra head smashed into the floor, and despite his wooziness—had he hit his head? He might have; he didn't know—he picked up a fallen dagger beside him and threw it, his magic forcing it to correct its flight, before it could dislodge its teeth from the floor.

He needn't have worried; the first of his bolts landed directly where he'd aimed—the heart of the magic, _Morgana_—and though the wispy emerald and black magical flares and the sword's power physically protected _her_, the beast itself cringed and shrieked at the touch of Merlin's light, and in a series of internal explosions bursting from the Hydra's core at the point of impact, it finally _died_, collapsing into formless smoke and shade.

It was a very beautiful, beautiful thing, the warlock decided.

However, his victory was short-lived because for the one ball of energy that flew true, there was a partner, and that partner—

Through foggy eyes, the warlock saw that Lancelot knelt over Percival, who gripped a bloody leg and lay in a crimson pool…

…_No._

Shaking like a leaf, Merlin rushed to his feet as quickly as he could without losing his vision and blacking out, and he gasped, voice thick with guilt, "Percival."

"Just a scratch, Merlin," Lancelot was quick to soothe as he tied a tourniquet around the other knight's thigh. "He'll be alright."

_No, no. It's not alright. Because Lancelot was resorting to a damn tourniquet and because he—he _missed, _and now…_

He was slipping.

A flash of purple whistled past his ear, and when it struck pillar behind him, the impact released a sound like thunder and _shattered _the stonework. Merlin whipped around to see Morgana flinging herself from the lingering shadows that had once formed the Hydra, another cursed ball of magic spinning at Excalibur's tip.

Eyes blazing and adrenaline pumping, the warlock repositioned himself into a protective stance that hid any disorientation and heaviness he was currently experiencing, and he ordered, "_Áríse, __stán_!" (5)

The stones that popped up from the ground were truly meant to trip her and bruise her shins and jab into her stomach, but it was rather unfortunate that she _had _to be graceful enough to avoid them entirely.

She launched the spiky ball of pulsating magic with a slash of Excalibur, and when it split into four midair and sharply angled to shoot in different directions, Merlin knew he wouldn't be able to stop all of them before exploded quickly muttered, "Áswindeaþ." (6)

It was a stupid, desperate spell. Had he been at his full strength, with a full meal under his belt and a good night's rest beforehand, he might have been able to pull it off, but unfortunately, he hadn't had such luxuries, and yet here he was—trying to dissociate and dissolve the energy of _another's _magic in its physical form...as it was shooting toward him at a high velocity.

He was an idiot.

Needless to say, despite the strength of Merlin's normally superior magic, the purple magic merely faltered and fizzled before—thank gods—he automatically assumed that that brief hesitation in their path was enough to avert each ball into the ground at their feet.

And while he did so, setting off _booms _that sounded louder than a dozen giants' footfalls…

He was so focused upon the electrical balls that he failed the true attack from the witch, and it wasn't until a fierce pressure clamped itself around his throat and slammed him back into the nearest wall, raising him so that his feet no longer touched the ground, that he cursed himself for being so foolish.

Struggling against her hold, he tore his gaze from her greedy, jubilant, and victorious eyes and took a chance to see that the others…

Upon seeing their warlock in such a precarious situation, each of them had frozen in place, as though they were afraid that a single movement would set Morgana on a merciless killing rampage, and their faces—chilly with rage and fear. Fear for him.

Arthur and Gwaine exchanged a look, but before the king could so much as shift his grip on his sword—a silly habit that Merlin had teased him about for as long as he had known him, seeing as his hand always managed to find its way back where it had been before—Morgana chided, "Ah ah ah."

Without relenting her grip on Merlin's throat or lowering her hand, she pointed Excalibur to the knights, who were now indignantly shouting something the warlock couldn't quite understand, and laughed.

Each of them cried out as she forced their backs to bend into a bow…and as they, unable to withstand the weight she placed upon them, sank to their knees.

Vaguely, Merlin knew that Arthur would _not _like this—this, out of any blow she could have dealt…

And though his dimming vision prevented him from seeing Arthur's face, the humiliation and infuriation radiated from his king in waves.

His lungs were heaving and burning from lack of air, yet still Morgana didn't move as she laughed, and gods, the sound was sickening, reverberating like an echo in a cave in his ears…

Air flooded into his lungs unexpectedly, making him choke and gasp, and when he opened his eyes again—he couldn't quite remember when he'd closed them—he wasn't surprised to find her smirking at him.

"How does it feel to find yourself helpless, Merlin?" she asked, cocking her head.

He tried working his mouth to respond to her, but it became clear that while she was _kind_ enough to allow him air, she wasn't too willing to give up his voice just yet, so instead, he glared.

That just made her chuckle, and flickering her gaze to his friends, whose eyes were stuck fast to their knees, she warned him without a word that he wasn't to try anything or she'd do something he'd regret.

So, hating himself and the position that the noble knights of Camelot were in—for no man, no matter his status in life, should have to be _forced _to _bow _before a tyrant_, _to kiss the floor at her feet, to lower their eyes…

_Flashes of memories, the taste of dirt and blood in his mouth, the feeling of a boot digging between his shoulder blades…their jeers of 'bastard' and 'devil spawn'…_

_Will, chasing them away, picking him up from the ground, again and again being thrown into fights he shouldn't have had to fight and often coming out of them bloodier and more humiliated than the young warlock himself and yet always, always putting on a brave, reckless smile, claiming that it was worth every bruise if it kept Merlin from losing and hating himself…_

_His mother, humbly accepting the verbal abuse of those who didn't understand and whispering to him that it wasn't true and didn't matter because all there was to her was her truth and because he was special, watching as those around her turned a blind eye as their children left him broken and bloody in the dust and deciding to take matters into her own hands, often invoking the wrath of the parents…kneeling before Uther and pleading…_

No human being—not a single one.

And most certainly _not _the Once and Future King _or _his knights, past and present…and not to Morgana, who epitomized exactly what it was they fought against.

His magic rolled and shifted angrily under his skin like a caged animal, building, building, a dam threatening to burst…

And like a trained hawk, it lay in wait for its handler's command to strike.

Morgana lowered the hand holding Merlin to the wall, to which he remained stuck fast, and sauntered to stand before the knights, and after wrenching each head up with a flick of her wrist, looking at each of them in turn, and sending an absentminded shrug at Lot's stirring form, her lips turned upward, and she slowly, slowly lowered herself into a crouch beside Percival.

Merlin could see the large man's jaw knitting and kneading in his fury, but Morgana neither quaked under his severe glare nor attempted to enforce her control over his body when he began to fight her with everything he had, his limbs trembling and a sheen of sweat coating his skin.

All Morgana did was gently lay Excalibur across her lap and place a hand across Percival's wounded thigh, and Merlin growled noiselessly when her bleeding, cut fingers gripped his chin and violently turned it so that he was looking directly at the warlock. "You see, Sir Knight?" she whispered.

Percival grunted and nearly succeeded in breaking free of her grip, but her nails dug into his jaw, and with a flash of gold eyes and a mutter, the knight ceased his rebellion and hung his head as he struggled to control his breathing.

"Do play nice…or I won't allow you to speak."

When Percival didn't move except to look around the room at his irate, stone-faced king and friends, she whispered a spell, jerked his head back to Merlin, and said aloud, "Now, I ask again, what do you see, Sir Knight?"

His eyes never left Merlin's, asking, seeking, ensuring that the warlock was alright, and apparently satisfied with what he saw in his friend's blazing blue eyes, his gaze hardened, and he deadpanned in a hoarse voice, "I see my friend hanging on the wall by his throat."

Without warning, Morgana dug her fingers into his wound and grinned when Percival involuntarily released a strangled groan. "Wrong answer," she hissed. "I would suggest you look harder, _pet_."

Bristling at the degrading epithet, Percival bit out, "I won't submit to your games, Morgana."

"Oh, you really are no fun, Sir Knight," she pouted with a repulsively sweet smile. "I really don't understand why it matters when you're going to die anyway, but I will indulge you because I tire of your defiance. It's always so misguided."

Merlin's gut dropped at her words, and even though Percival continued to send him a steady look full of faith and reassurance, the warlock felt fear, genuine fear, because that faith, he knew, was misplaced in someone like him, who hung on the wall like an old tapestry, useless and on display.

And Arthur, dear gods, Merlin could not even look at him in shame for letting her have this advantage over them, and when he did, all he could see was the same expression of faith, the same blazing rage...

_What the hell are you doing, Merlin_? It sounded like Will's voice, like Gwaine's and Arthur's and Gaius' voices…

And his own voice asked in agreement, _Yes, Merlin, what the hell _are _you doing?_

Nothing.

Nothing _yet_.

"Look at him, Sir Knight. You see now? Your Merlin is _weak_," Morgana hissed, pushing Percival's face away before standing and stalking toward Merlin, "and he cares not for you. Oh, yes, he may insist he cares—"

She was centimeters from him.

"—he may _appear _as though he cares—"

She wrenched him downward so that they stood eye-to-eye, face-to-face. He felt her hot breath against his cheek, and those green orbs bored through him, straight through to the soul.

"—but you and your friends will only ever be second place to him with my brother around—as he proved here today and time and time again in the past—and you would do well to remember that. Because worse than his weakness…"

Merlin couldn't help but flinch away when her fingers gently traced his cheekbone.

"…worse than his lies…"

She pinched his cheek in the same manner a mother would her daughter's babe had it not been accompanied by a small magical shock that shook his bones.

"…is the knowledge that you can never truly depend on him to be there for _you_, can you?"

The dam burst, the hawk was released, and Merlin's magic, in its eagerness to _shut her up_ and to _act _without thinking for once (a dangerous, yet utterly glorious thing, indeed, to ignore caution) and to _be free_, surged forth, dissolving the enchantments that held him to the wall and enforced the invisible grip around his throat and tossing Morgana as though she was nothing more than a rag doll.

As she crashed into what remained of one of the tables and the puddle of spilt Lybb, he dropped to the floor, and inevitably, his legs gave out the second his feet touched the floor. However, despite the numbness creeping up his neck, he didn't skip a beat and released the knights with a wave of his hand.

Arthur was the first to roll to his feet, and in a blink of an eye, he was offering a hand to Merlin.

The king's blue eyes were unreadable as he scanned Merlin, who did not miss the wince when his gaze passed over the forming bruises on his neck. "She's going to pay for this."

His eyes were blazing gold, and without removing his eyes from the witch's form or responding to Arthur, he allowed himself to reach for the stone's stores of energy with his mind and shuddered…because the stuff was all over her, and he couldn't imagine…

She had open wounds on her face and hands. If any of the drug got into her system…

But it was created of _her _magic.

Arthur's voice broke through his thoughts, just as a niggling idea wormed its way into his mind and started to burrow there. "Are you alright?"

For some reason, Merlin managed to bark a laugh and mutter sarcastically, "Never better. You?"

That sarcasm and humor seemed to convince Arthur more than anything else would that he truly _was _alright, in a sense, and a small smile twitched at his lips. "Right as rain."

Despite the obnoxious, ironic cheer in his voice, his tone was tight, and Merlin finally said slowly, "Arthur, I think—"

"Kay, no!" Lancelot shouted.

Both the young king and warlock tensed, and…

Kay might have seen it as an opportunity to rid the world of Morgana once and for all, but Merlin knew better from the wild light in his teal eyes. For all the self-revelations the warlock knew that the older man had had, despite what he had come to see in himself and what he had begun to change, there was still that part of him that was still self-conscious enough to find a hurt pride more unbearable than the pain of losing a limb.

And a hurt pride, apparently, led him do to stupid, reckless things like trying to stab a powerful priestess of the Old Religion when said priestess looked as though she was weakened and vulnerable.

Every warrior, magical or otherwise, knew a downed opponent—unless knocked out or dead…well, it was said that an enemy at their most desperate was when they were at their most dangerous.

Merlin had no time to flex his magic in order to grip Kay around the midsection and drag him back, so he had to make do with preventing Kay's head from colliding with the wall when Morgana tripped him—without magic, which would have been an amusing sight if it had been friendly roughhousing on the training fields in Camelot—and pushed him across the floor, most likely rubbing his back raw in the process as he skimmed over the rough floor.

The moment Kay slid to a stop and flopped back his head into a table leg with a low moan, Merlin swung his golden gaze to Morgana only to be forced to hesitate when Arthur, who grabbed the warlock's upper arm and whispered, "Whatever it takes, Merlin, stay away from that stuff."

"Why would—?"

"_Merlin_." Arthur's gaze and tone left no room for cheek (or much of any response for that matter), and when the king barely deflected a dagger that came flying from the witch, Merlin immediately retorted with a stunning charm, which rammed directly into her stomach and made her double over.

Taking advantage of the time she gave him as she tried to compose herself, Merlin twisted his wrist sharply in circles, over and over and over, and, thanking the gods for drafty dungeons, he commanded, "_Lis __eafoðe se byre ond __tóblæw! Bebít!_" (7)

Wind whistled and roared through the tunnels, and following the direction of Merlin's pointed finger, it _flew_.

The winds were meant to knock her off her feet again—to down her so that he could finally have the chance to keep her there long enough to _get the sword _because with the sword back in Arthur's possession, Morgana would be no match for him, even as weak as he was…

Twisting her body at the last possible second, Morgana narrowly avoided blast of air, but in the attempt, the spelled wind caught her hair as it sailed by, and…

The whole room went silent—no spells flew, no swords flashed…not a single one of them moved a muscle. Silence, stillness—it was as though they were unable to believe what just happened, holding their breaths…

And they watched with wide, disbelieving eyes as half a head of Morgana's hair fluttered to the ground.

When the clump of curls settled on the stone and when Morgana, whose eyes had cooled of their fire and insanity and could be compared to a little girl's when denied sweetmeats by her father, fingered at the side of her head, Merlin looked at his hand in confusion, as though it would be able to tell him what he had accidentally done to make the wind sharp enough to slice hair (he didn't want to think of what could have happened if she hadn't avoided the blast), and if that thought wasn't enough to make him snigger, raising his eyes to Morgana, who was still in a state of shock, the knights, who looked like they were in various stages of tense hysterics, and the hair—he cut off her _hair_.

A giggle threatened to bubble past his lips, but suddenly a rough hand fixed itself over his mouth. "What have you done?" Arthur whispered in a strange tone into his ear.

Merlin pushed the hand off his face and realized upon seeing the king's jumpiness and the way in which he didn't take his eyes off Morgana or relax his battle stance that this was a serious matter.

"You don't touch Morgana's hair, Merlin," Arthur mumbled in an undertone so that others could not overhear and break Morgana from her numb trance. "Not. Ever. I learned that the hard way when we were children. Multiple times over."

"…You're kidding," the warlock deadpanned, wiping the sweat from his forehead and eyeing Excalibur.

Her knuckles were bone-white with the force of her grip.

"Do I look like I am? And it doesn't help that the Dark magic's twisted her sanity. She threw fits _then_—before all of this…Now? Now, I don't—"

In retrospect, it was a bad case of self-fulfilling prophecy, and when Gwaine, unable to control himself any longer, interrupted the king by releasing a guffaw, Morgana, her eyes raging, _moved_.

She had finally _snapped_, and she shrieked, unleashing a tidal wave of magic that bowled them over onto each other in a heap of limbs and chainmail. Before Merlin could untangle himself from Lancelot, Morgana had him by the wrist and dragged him from the pile, throwing him back with enough force that his head snapped back and cracked against the stone.

Stars fluttered and swirled before his eyes, and though he only vaguely heard her cussing and ranting about her hair and _look at what you've done, you bastard, _or something of the sort, he definitely felt the pressure of her boot crushing his chest, and his hands automatically wrapped around it. Magic blazed through his fingers, and after a weak flash of gold lit the warlock's eyes, Morgana yelped at the shock and retreated, giving him the chance to roll out of the way before the boot came crashing back down on his face.

Staggering to his feet and blinking owlishly, Merlin tried to banish the damned spots because he couldn't _see _and swallow the nausea and still his breathing and remember which way was up and keep his feet on the ground and gods, the _noise _all around, clanging, banging, shrieking, shrieking…

"_Enough_!"

His voice was unrecognizable even to himself, and the power of the authority in it made everyone, even Arthur, who was in the middle of a backswing that might have sliced Morgana's arm open had he followed through, halt yet again.

This spell of silence was broken far more quickly than the first when the warlock finally gave in to his headache and dropped into a crouch so low to the floor that he was able to use one hand to brace himself against the stone. Once he was down, the witch herself batted Arthur, Gwaine, Kay, and Lancelot, all of whom had been protecting him and engaging her themselves, to the side and holding them still so that she could face Merlin directly, and with steely cold eyes, she stalked slowly to him. "Enough? _Enough_?!No, this is _my_ game, _my_ rules, and _you_!" she hissed. "You, you, you, you. Not you, Merlin _Emrys, _not my daft brother or his pretty-boy knights—no, not a single one of you will make a fool of _me._"

"No, you don't need anyone's help for that. You do it well enough on your own," he spat, loathing that he had to look _up _to meet her gaze as he inconspicuously rubbed his temples.

For a moment, a mad grin contorted her face, but an odd sort of amused snarl quickly replaced it. "Such _wit, Emrys. _I do believe that I'm going to kill you all now," she sang to the group, completely ignoring his bait. "And Merlin…while it has been so much fun, I am done with you. Say your goodbyes to your free will, for it will assuredly be yours no longer."

_No. No, no, no. _His thighs trembled with the effort of attempting to stand.

"MERLIN!"

He couldn't bear their worried eyes or their insistences that he _get up_, and reaching for the vat energy in his pocket—there'd been no time before…

And now it was too late.

"_Bíedaþ __þá __þone unlybban __mé! Mín__to __wieldan béoþ_!" (8)

Morgana inverted Excalibur in her hands, and with an inhuman scream, she stabbed it between her feet, where the blade sank into the floor…

A pained cry erupted from Merlin's mouth, and when he collapsed again and a raging fire tore through his mind, he didn't feel himself crumple the rest of the way to the floor, for all he _could_ feel was the fire; he didn't hear the soft crack of his kneecaps hitting the ground, for all he _could _hear was his pounding heartbeat thud-thud-thudding like a drum in his ears. And with each beat—a new wave of pain that ravaged his magic, which, stubborn as its master, fought back.

An echo—his name—Kay—Kay's name, demanding, loud, icy…a clang of a dagger, a subdued moan and stumbling, crashing, and one of Merlin's hands cradled his imploding head while the other hugged his chest because the fire was so cold…because lungs shrinking, ribs bending inward to stab his innards, too small, too dark, too tight, heart—slow, constricted, languid, pained, pained—every beat… he couldn't _breathe_.

_Stand up, Emrys_.

Her command…sharp and biting. Tears gathered in his eyes, but he gripped his bucking, shying magic, fighting, fighting—

_No_.

—and _shoved _her out.

And suddenly, it was bearable. He could breathe, and he gulped the air down as a drowning sailor would after a shipwreck.

The look on Morgana's face was nothing short of terrifying, and it was the first time that Merlin couldn't tell—there was no distinction between hatred and anger and insanity and glee.

The last time he'd seen such an impossible look was in the eyes of the Crocotta. Beasts. Monsters. Animals…that found the hunt their greatest pleasure in life and yet got far too testy when their meal bit back…

"Shame," Morgana sighed, moving away from the sword, now completely surrounded by an energy field of spitting black and green, and kicking Merlin over so that he lay on his back. "I had hoped that there was a little more there. I would have liked to see what I could do with you, but I suppose watching you _tremble _was satisfactory enough until I can complete the ceremony. I guess I'll have to make do with Kay as my plaything for now."

Merlin's eyes flashed open, and ignoring all of his body's screaming requests that he just stay still, he immediately sought Kay.

The young knight, his eyes glazed, had stiffened, and even though Lot, who had rejoined the world of the conscious, was speaking to him in a raspy, weak timbre, Kay still stared straight ahead without acknowledging the Escetian king, and no sign of recognition broke the stoic, dead mask fixed on his face.

And all Merlin could do was freeze in horror as the realization dawned upon him.

The Lybb—it was still in their systems, and while he…he could break free, it—it still had a hold over Kay.

Down the hall, there came the sound of rustling clothes, heavy footsteps, and swords being drawn.

~…~

Gwen could compare it to trying to run in her dreams...while sleepwalking.

Everything was fluid around her, and she would try, try, try to run, to escape, to save Arthur's life only to fail and see him felled by Morgana, by bandits, by an enemy king…whatever the case, she would try _so _hard to run and yet find herself constricted, unable to move, distances growing longer when they logically should be doing the opposite.

Ironically enough, she was not afraid, and it was an almost out of body feeling. It was _easy _to lie and slip away. In the chaos of the infirmary, servants ran in and out, the healers ran to and fro, and the injured were carried in…the dead, out. So when Gaius needed more of his prepared medicines from his chambers during a strange lull in the bustling action, well, Gwen was all too happy to offer her services and have no one aware of her true plans. The only time that she might have been compromised was when she gently stopped one maid and passed the duty onto the younger girl along with the task of finding friends to collect more linens, but she supposed being queen had its perks. The maid didn't question, and Gwen had the time she needed before they came searching for her.

That was the easy part.

The hard part…was being conscious of her every move—her expression, her gait, her speed—nothing about her countenance or manner could indicate that she was in a rush for anything more than just that: supplies for Gaius; that was why, even when she managed to find herself in empty corridors, away from the main routes of the castle, the queen couldn't break out into a dead sprint or allow her mask to falter for fear that a random member of the staff would pass through and see her doing something suspicious or borderline mischievous or stupid or something else worthy of their attentions, and she didn't want that.

And so even as she grew closer and closer to her destination, she felt like she was moving through molasses, and what made it worse was knowing that once she got there…

Gwen had no true plan. Not really. After deciding what she must do, it took only a few moments of absolute panic before she settled into a strange calm, and it was within this state of mind that the queen considered and planned.

And above all, she scrambled for every last minute detail she could remember from some of Merlin's ramblings.

After naming Merlin Court Sorcerer, Arthur had given him the task of sorting the Vaults and cataloguing the items there, and Merlin, of course, had been more than thrilled to do it. A brief smile flittered across Gwen's face as she recalled her eccentric friend bursting into her chambers or Arthur's chambers or the council chambers so that he could either gush about some new discovery he had made and any and all new theories he had or rant about how _moronic_ certain hoarding kings were and how equally moronic certain others were for not doing their research and allowing certain dangerous items to remain beneath their feet.

She'd heard quite a few of those rants and rambles over the last month, but the one item he was more interested in than all others—and one he constantly and repeatedly talked about after finding it—had been an amulet that distorted reality. In fact, he had been excited enough about this artifact to _demonstrate _for them, just a few days before he left with the party to Lot's kingdom.

It had been amusing to see the look on Gwaine's face when Arthur caught him trying to sneak into the council chambers, where he and Gwen were eating a private dinner, and to hear him splutter in confusion, "But Merlin said…"

And indeed, Merlin had said, but he hadn't said all. The truth came out when the warlock, who had followed the knight in, explained that he had wanted to do an experiment and that it had taken very little to convince Gwaine to attempt to pull a prank on the royal couple.

"Your intentions," Merlin had said as he took the amulet back from an annoyed Gwaine, "have to be pure and honorable in order to use this. Gwaine wanted to cause mischief, and the amulet sensed it. He could not bend reality and remove himself from your vision and hearing. But me?"

Merlin had proceeded to prove that, when he focused solely on the benefits of using the power for the protection of Camelot, during scouting missions, or even in the middle of famines, the amulet could completely mask the entire presence of a person.

"But I discovered you have to beware," the warlock had said seriously when Arthur's eyes gleamed with interest. "An enemy whose goals don't match ours—one who thinks that their cause is honorable and noble…well, they can use this just as easily. And another thing: if your resolve falters at any time while using it, a footstep might be heard, a flash of your clothes might be seen, or you might completely lose control over its power…"

_She needed that amulet_. Without it, everything would fall apart, and she wouldn't be able to sneak out to find that vessel. To actually demolish it? No problem. Merlin had plenty to say about the enchanted weapons that he'd felt fit to save for the sole purpose of replicating and remodeling some of the spells for the current knights' swords and guards' spears.

That was where her plan ended, and understandably, when she began to descend into the Vaults, the sense of calm and fierce control with which she held her expression and posture completely dissolved, leaving her alone with the enormity of her decision.

Because once Gwen retrieved the amulet, which was guarded by wards quite like Merlin's chambers were, what was she to do? She was to slip behind the enemy lines—enemy lines filled with brigands, sorcerers, and beasts (and it'd be _quite _an understatement to say that they outnumbered her)—and somehow find this vessel, which would undoubtedly be heavily guarded, and destroy it? What then? Would the organization of the demons Morgana summoned break apart? Would they turn on each other?

_Or would they turn on her once her mission was complete?_

Her hand trembled as she pushed open the gate, and the familiar feeling of Merlin's magic washing over her as she entered the organized room did nothing to soothe her nerves.

Because if—_when _she succeeded, what was the intent that kept her in control of the amulet's power? Was there a guarantee that it would find her desire to _survive _honorable enough when she wanted nothing more than to live to see Camelot free of Morgana's evil…or would the magic sense her innate sense of self-preservation and fear as selfish and ultimately expose her?

There wasn't; there was _no_ guarantee that the amulet would keep her safe when the deed was done.

Swallowing hard, Gwen staggered and braced herself against the wall, and after closing her eyes, she took a few deep breaths and struggled to push the thought of the Crocotta…

_Oh gods._ If she wasn't killed by the mutts or by renegade sorcerers, _Arthur_ was going to in their place. No, no, he wasn't going to react too kindly to this.

But that was just it. She wasn't just a wife. She wasn't just a queen. She was _Arthur Pendragon's _wife and queen, and even before she could call herself as such, she hadn't one to be passive when there was something she could _do _to help.

Besides, it was practically inevitable that he, his servant-warlock, and his knights would rub some of their more idiotic brand recklessness off on her eventually.

So, despite the unknowns—when everything was hanging in the balance…for Camelot, what better way was there to go?

When she opened her eyes, her resolve solidified, and locating the amulet right where Merlin had left it, she reached for it and slipped the chain over her head, and within seconds, the only sign Gwen's presence was a floating sword.

Yet that, too, disappeared in the blink of an eye, and the Vaults were empty.

~…~

Kay had never felt more relieved when he saw Merlin, covered head to toe in dust, emerge from the collapsing room.

And he had never felt more horrified when his vision was stolen from him…only to return milliseconds later with a very clear view of exactly what it was that they were up against.

Merlin himself—As Kay dodged and swiped rather ineffectively at the Hydra heads when they came too close to him or Lot, he watched the warlock with awe. Merlin looked more fierce than the ex-knight had ever seen him: his teeth gritted in his determination, his body darting here and there, attempting to be everywhere and nowhere at once, his eyes fixed upon the beast, blazing gold and flooding with power…

It moved so fast—and in such a blur of light, noise, and color—that Kay didn't realize what had happened until the beast was dissolving into smoke, Arthur was picking himself up from the floor, Percival was bleeding, Merlin was pinned to the wall, and Morgana stood, laughing…

"Ah, ah, ah," she sang, and her magic coiled around his limbs like chains, whispering, _Bow._ _Bow to me_.

When he refused and fought, his spine was bent by force, and after the back of his head was on display for _her_ to see, his knees were knocked out from under him. He released a cry, which was choked off by a new feeler of black magic that crept to his neck and latched there to suck away his voice, as a leech would blood, and it was no different for the others. Unlike them however…his body and mind recognized the blackness as a lover and yet repelled it as though it was an unwanted whore, and it made his skin squirm to again be _touched_ by her magic, to be _controlled_ by it…

And after everything she had done to him, after all that she'd taken from him, he would _not _allow her to abuse him anymore.

_No_. _No more_.

Morgana was speaking to Percival, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. Eyes of pale ice swung to Merlin, whose glare would have sent Kay running for the hills had it been directed towards him…

Rage blazed, boiling his blood and enflaming any remaining control he had over his temper and logic…

A vicious surge of pleasure and bloodlust thrilled him as Merlin blasted Morgana off her feet, sending her crashing to the floor, and when the warlock's warm magic brushed off the chains of dark magic in a single glorious sweep, Kay was ready to press the advantage.

It was a little embarrassing how long it took him to get to his feet (especially considering Arthur rolled to his feet without trouble), so great was the effect of her spell on his already magic-abused body, but no one was watching, and even if they were, it wouldn't deter him. Not even Lot, who was stirring and muttering for the first time since falling unconscious, could stop him.

He _would_ attack her while she was at a disadvantage and hopefully land a hit on the bitch once for himself and then again for Camelot…

Arthur had always joked that he was so hotheaded that he would sooner trip over a root in his eagerness to beat him in a tree-climbing contest than actually have a chance to win the contest at all, and when Kay did trip over Morgana's foot and felt his back chafe against the stone as he was forcefully _pushed _away, he couldn't help but be even more dreadfully embarrassed and think that if he got out of this alive, the king was going to tease him relentlessly.

But after his head hit one of the wooden bench's legs, he lay _stunned _and unable to move as resentment and pain, accompanied by a brutal stab of disappointment and self-loathing, flooded him…because she _tripped _him. He had a chance (and a bloody wide _open _chance) to _end _her—or at least assist Merlin in doing so—and he was _tripped. _

Of all the stupid…

Before he could continue to berate himself further, Lot coughed from his corner and croaked something in an undertone, and Kay immediately registered that he was being summoned.

"Kay?"

His head throbbed like hell, but the younger man flipped over and inched his way to Lot, whose jade eyes were surprisingly clear and aware.

"Are you—?" Kay cut himself off when an eerie, tense silence pervaded the room, and panicking, the ex-knight slipped another long-bladed dagger into his hand and raised his sharp eyes…

His initial reaction was one of relief: no one was dying, no one was dead, Arthur was staring, and Merlin was staring at his hand... Morgana, too, was staring…

What the hell?

Lot must have sensed the change in the atmosphere because he was silent and merely watched Kay's face morph from relief to utter confusion as the younger man slowly, carefully shifted his body to see...

Hair. Merlin had cut off her _hair_.

Flashes of memories of pranking Uther's new ward, pulling her hair, launching food and spit and whatever else they could think of to torment her…

She usually took their other pranks in good grace and had pulled quite a number on _them _herself in retaliation, but gods forbid—you touch her hair…you may just lose a finger.

The odd truce of silence ended when Gwaine laughed, and Kay could have groaned and yelled at him for it had Morgana not snapped, _screamed,_ and released a wave of magic that shoved him and Lot against the wall before he could so much as take a breath of air.

Reacting instinctively, Kay caught a bench before it could topple over and smash their heads into the ground, and grateful that no pointy objects had been resting upon it, he pushed it off and leapt to his feet.

"What's happening?" Lot said, unable to raise himself up high enough to see over the mess before him.

"Merlin—Merlin's down," he whispered, wincing as the warlock's head cracked against the ground.

"Go! I'll be fine."

Even before the order was issued, Kay was in motion, and just Gwaine attacked the witch, who screamed and raved at the warlock, from behind, he was in the perfect position to get his body between Merlin and Morgana. Morgana herself was _livid, _and when Arthur joined Gwaine, she took no notice of Lancelot as he slipped next to Kay to prepare backup for their king and fellow knight and to help him protect Merlin as he collected himself.

"He's fading," Lancelot whispered as they took their positions and as Morgana parried a backhand from Arthur with Excalibur. Gwaine's follow-up came seconds too late, and she easily avoided his overhand and shot a ball of magic toward both the roguish knight and the vulnerable Percival, who shielded himself by dodging behind an overturned table. "He's focusing too much on _us_. Using too much of his magic to guard us."

Kay's gaze flickered over his shoulder to Merlin, and he really _looked_.

He had realized that the man was weaker than usual and was still very ill from the drug, but…he bit his lip. As the warlock struggled to recover from Morgana's last attack, his breathing was uneven, labored, and shallow, his whole body shook, and his skin was a shade of white that scared him. However, what filled him with hope was that despite the glazed and slightly unfocused quality those cobalt eyes had adopted, they were still alight with his life force, his unique fire.

He hated seeing him like this, and he jerked his gaze away.

"He can't go on much longer like this," Kay agreed in a whisper, his heart panging for his friend and simultaneously hardening with determination. "We have to end thi—"

"_Enough_!"

Power radiated from the Court Sorcerer's voice, which was cast in a deeper and more dangerous tone than Kay had ever heard before from him, and everyone—including Morgana—immediately stopped what they were dong to turn to the warlock, who stood tall and proud.

However, no sooner had they all begun to stare, pain ravaged the warlock's face and contorted his stern frown into a grimace, and though he lost his balance, lowered himself to the ground, and had to brace himself against the floor, his eyes never once lost their fury and defiance, and they never once left Morgana.

"Enough?" the witch whispered before repeating in a shriek, "_Enough_?! No,this is _my_ game, _my_ rules, and _you_! You, you, you, you. Not you, Merlin _Emrys, _not my daft brother or his pretty-boy knights—no, not a single one of you will make a fool of _me._"

Kay swallowed a snort when Merlin responded bitterly, "No, you don't need anyone's help for that. You do it well enough on your own."

Morgana sneered. "Such _wit, Emrys_."

Lancelot nudged him and motioned with his shoulder, and Kay followed Lancelot's dark eyes to the sword. Where it once had thrown its own intriguing silvery-golden glow day and night, it now looked tarnished, spoiled, dulled, and blackened by her negative, malicious energy, and within the blade, veins of gooey black—sweet, sweet, sickly sweet…

Kay shook his head, but that didn't dislodge the ice locking everything in place, and even behind closed eyelids, he _saw it _poisoning the sword, staining it…

Enhancing it.

"I do believe that I'm going to kill you all now," she simpered. "And Merlin…while it has been so much fun, I am done with you. Say your goodbyes to your free will, for it will assuredly be yours no longer."

_No._ It—no, no. She _couldn't_. How could she…when they were _free_ of it? It wouldn't work. She couldn't. Not here, not now. She couldn't take him now.

_The sword. Dear gods the _sword.

Merlin was struggling to stand upright, the others were rushing forward, calling his name, and terror erupted as he came to the full realization of what was about to happen.

"MERLIN!" he screamed…because there was no other way to warn him, no other way…

There was nowhere to run when Morgana hissed an incantation and stabbed Excalibur into the ground.

The monster stirred and purred—loving, tender, soft, and warm…like slipping into a warm bath after training in the rain or like ridding oneself of wet socks after a ride in the snow and replacing them with a pair that had just been laundered and dried by the fire… and Kay growled in response to its seductive invitation, shoving it back down and _away_. As far away from him as he could get it.

_Oh, Kay_, the enchantress whispered through the monster.

The knight grabbed his head as the words rebounded in his head, piercing through his conscious like an arrow, and shouting wordlessly, he pushed it away and stumbled hard when it pushed _back_.

_You can't escape it_.

No, he can escape it. He _would _escape it. It wasn't him. Not him. _He _was in control of himself, not Morgana. Not her magic, not the beast she's left him to live with for the remainder of his life…

It chuckled. _It is you. You are it_. _Come. Come._

He ran into a bench—he knew he did…he must have, judging by the crash it made—but he felt no pain but that of the monster's bite, which held onto him in a death grip…

"What're you doing to them? Merlin! MERLIN! Kay! KAY!"

"Get out of their heads! Merlin! Come on!"

"KAY!"

_Who is…no, you're Kay. You're Kay. Don't forget it_.

"Kay," someone said softly. Outside of his head? Inside of his head? He didn't know anymore. He didn't know.

_Come to me, pet. Join me._

"Kay, look at me."

Tears trailed down Kay's cheeks, and he hardly dare open his eyes because that'd be just one less defense he had, one less chance he had of fighting it and maintaining concentration…

"Kay."

Who was speaking to him? Was it _her_? Was it _that_? Trying to wheedle it's way back into control? Break through his mind? Where were the other voices? The one's…

His name was it? Was that what they were saying?

_Come here, love_. _We will take care of you_.

Sweet, sweet, sickly…no, it was so sweet. So warm and comforting. So good.

"Kay, _please_. Look at me."

Please. Please? Lot _never _said please.

Shock jolted Kay _back_, and his eyes flashed open to meet Lot's steady jade gaze.

"I—" the young man stuttered in confusion, working muscles he forgot he'd had.

"Fight it, Kay," Lot said in a hoarse voice.

"It—I—" The beast slithered within, and Kay groaned and ground his teeth against the wave of _her _inside him_—_it was her that was trying to lead him astray; he had to remember…he had to.

_He lies to you. You fight, you die. You fight, you lose. You fight…_

"Kay, listen to me."

Kay's eyes snapped back to the man, and he worked his lips and yet made no sound, begging, begging to be saved from this confusion, this torment of sweetness and pain and noise and voices and reality and insanity melding and mixing and mixing and melding.

It was indefinable. Fire, ice. Dry, wet. Mind, body. Faith, doubt. Love, hate. Friend, enemy. Self…self. What did it matter?

It was all the same.

"Kay, dammit, _look at me_."

Teal eyes met jade once more, and Lot, holding his eyes, said, "You can fight it. I know you can, Kay. Your mind is stronger than Morgana's magic..."

Magic. Morgana.

Merlin. Arthur. Lot. Kay. Camelot.

Camelot.

_Ours, pet_. _Glory will be ours if you let me…_

Kay found himself shaking his head and saying, "I can't—I—"

"You _can_. You did it once, you can do it again."

Lot believed that. He did—Kay _saw it_, and remorse filled him, kicking the beast back and giving him a second of complete clarity.

Merlin was wrong. Arthur, the knights, and Lot—they were wrong—and all Kay could do…was give his cousin a sad, apologetic smile…because he wasn't good enough, because Morgana's magic, fueled by Excalibur…he couldn't stop it, not like Merlin could, not without a light like his…

So with that last second he had as _himself—_as _Kay_—he smiled.

Powered by the witch's magic, the beast gurgled happily and pounced, and he slipped below the surface.

* * *

><p>(1) Translation: SlitCleave/Cut off/Destroy.

(2) Translation: Reveal my sight to them.

(3) Translation: Draw forth the metal.

(4) Translation: Burn.

(5) Translation: Rise, stone.

(6) Translation: Become weak/fade/shrink/dissolve

(7) Translation: Collect/Gather strength, strong wind, and blast! Bite!

(8) Translation: Summon [call out an army, specifically] those of the drug (of the Lybb) to me! They are mine to have power over/control [written more like Yoda-speech, if you're curious to know, because in Latin, the verb is usually at the end of the sentence: Mine to control they are. :P]

AN: Yup. *devil grins* Don't worry, by the way, Merlin will have his turn soon. ;D

Some things I need to say (mostly for myself so that I follow through and don't stick with my bad habits): after this fic is done (and yes, it WILL be completed...sometime...hopefully), I have a few new ideas that are faaaar from this the Prophesized arc, and I've decided to 1) never do chapters this long again because let me tell you, they drain you dead and 2) never ever ever write-as-I-go ever again and instead begin to write most of the fic before posting so that I can set up a schedule *gasps*

In other news, I have an original (read: non-fanfiction and novel-like) story idea! Yaaaay!

Love you all! Thanks for reading, and I'm sorry for any and all mistakes. :)

Oz out


	26. Part IV: An Act of Mercy

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: It's been awhile, guys, and I again can't thank you enough for your patience with me. Excuses this time: PCAT (did pretty well, by the way!), vacation to visit family in Illinois, and pharmacy school application. I'm behind on PMs as well as song suggestions again. Apologies are necessary.

Now, enough of serious talk. I've got fun news!

Over at the Heart of Camelot site, we held fanfiction awards, and I'm humbled and honored to have had **Heart of Gold** win 2 of them: _Best Original Character _and_ Best Epic Length Story_, which made a tie with LadyHeatherlly's **Undeniable **(brilliant Gwen/Lancelot fic). **Something More **took _Best Characterization: Arthur_, **Holly Leaves **tied with LadyHeatherlly's **Breaking the Spell **(sweet and genius fic about Vivian and what happened to her after the events of "Sweet Dreams": 2x10) for _Best Romantic Pairing (Other)_, and **Only Friend **won _Best Platonic Relationship (Merlin/Arthur)_. Other winners included MoonFox, jaqtkd, Estrelle Buscador (also known as Realta Cuardach), Ryne, Wil1969, ExcaliburMaiden, and many others. It was a tough competition, and I loved every fic I read while nominating and voting. If you have a chance, check out the list of winners on the Heart of Camelot and leave them your congratulations. They're a brilliant lot of people over there, and their writing is always worth a read.

Speaking of reading, check out dreamsweetmydear's **Build Your Wings and Fly, Love. **It's an intense modern Freylin fic that is full of feels of all kinds, and it was a joy to beta and an even greater joy to read. I happily and shamelessly promote it here because I can. :P

Now, guys, THIS is it. Finally. The last part of this never-ending Merlin-Morgana battle. I'm afraid that I'm starting to get really boring and repetitive (there's not a Gwen/Camelot scene either so the chapter's not really broken up like the past few), so I am nervous about this. However, despite all of that, this really is...I'm proud to have finally done this. Strangely written, I'll admit, but yes, I'm excited.

The question of Kay's fate will be answered by the time you reach the last word of the chapter.

* * *

><p>"<em>I will dedicate<em>

_And sacrifice my everything for just a second's worth_

_Of how my story's ending_

_And I wish I could know if the directions that I take_

_And all the choices that I make won't end up all for nothing_

…

_I've been crawling in the dark, looking for the answer."_

(Song: "Crawling in the Dark" from Hoobastank's debut 2001 album Hoobastank)

[Check out the acoustic version that's been released with their newest album Fight or Flight, if you'd prefer! It's beautifully done.]

* * *

><p><strong>Part IV: An Act of Mercy<strong>

_Morgana inverted Excalibur in her hands, and with an inhuman scream, she stabbed it between her feet, where the blade sank into the floor…_

...

_The Lybb—it was still in their systems, and while he…he could break free, it—it still had a hold over Kay._

_Down the hall, there came the sound of rustling clothes, heavy footsteps, and swords being drawn._

…

Everywhere. Nowhere. They came. Like shadows, like spiders, like nightmares and ghosts, silent and emotionless, they crept, snuck, and _appeared_ from everywhere and nowhere, and it was only after they were surrounded that Merlin found he could tear his gaze from Kay to blink around at the blur of darkness and paleness, paleness and darkness. Their fluttering cloaks clung to their malnourished and hopelessly addicted forms, and deep-set, haunted eyes, glinting and slimy and sick and _wrong_, stared unblinkingly from faces as white as the belly of a bloated fish. Eerie. Dead. And, from within, _glowing _with the tainted emerald of Morgana's magic, the very same that pulsed and leapt like flames about Excalibur…

While they were no _army_, so to speak, there were more of them than Merlin had anticipated. That fact alone—that there were so many that had been seduced by her, corrupted by her…powerless, alone, deteriorating, and wholly trapped within their own minds—as anger and determination erupted through him, that was enough to send his vision careening from fuzzy to disturbingly clear and back again. Over and over and over in a dizzying circle that went 'round and 'round.

With her enemies either kneeling before her in their weakness or staring in shock at the power she possessed, Morgana tossed back her head—spilling only half a head of luscious hair over her shoulder in the process, Merlin couldn't help but notice…

…and she _cackled_.

Something within Merlin snapped at the sound of her so _gleeful_ in her victory, so _confident_, so _mad_… and he inwardly growled_, _for she was _too _gleeful, _too _confident, and utterly _mad_ to leave him this time to recuperate fully.

She would never learn, would she?

Because while she (and everyone else, for that matter) was distracted, his subconscious finally, _finally _felt it safe and apt to allow a wall to fall, toallow himself a second of respite, so, barely clinging to consciousness and searching deep for a sliver of _something_, he found what he was searching for, extended his mind, and _yanked_ so that a flood of energy surged through him from the philosopher's stone. The blissful feeling of his rejuvenated magic racing in sync with his pumping adrenaline, the pure and ancient energy rejoicing within him—it was beautiful, empowering…

And it was then that he felt it—wrathful, powerful, and above all, _worried, worried, worried. _It was a familiar mind that brushed his own, and Merlin's heart leapt with renewed hope just as Kilgharrah's pulsed with relief and, after quickly assessing the state of his Dragonlord's mind, renewed _rage_.

Though Kilgharrah was now in range and capable of projecting into Merlin's mind, the dragon did not speak, and on a nonverbal consensus, the bond broadened, and a tendril of Kilgharrah's magic settled within Merlin, subsequently strengthening, bolstering, widening, and _maintaining_ the flow of energy for the young warlock.

A smirk grew on Merlin Emrys' face, and upon stretching his magic and reaching for the sky as one would after a good night's rest, his senses probed the edges of the Earth's magic, the very source of _himself_. She accepted the embrace of Her son and began to help reknit his abused magic and banish the last of remnants of the poison within. Reveling in Her vibrancy, promise, and hope, Emrys finally opened his eyes, and, with Her permission, he _saw_ it. He saw it all. Morgana's magic and the sword's…the ripple, the _aura_, the wave, the pond, the sea of green and black that smothered everything in its path—it was redistributed, scattered, and hardly as powerful separate as it had been together—and Excalibur called to its master.

Merlin began to laugh.

For one strange moment, both Merlin's chuckles and Morgana's giggling could be heard melding in dark harmony before suddenly clashing in dissonance—his laughter steadily increasing in hilarity and volume, and hers, in her confusion and annoyance, faltering and fading to nonexistence.

"Is there something _funny_, Merlin?" Morgana hissed through her teeth.

He was unable make any response, and he doubled over in an attempt to catch his breath. Every second that passed, every second that she fumed and didn't understand—it made everything clearer, lighter, and brighter, and by simply observing the pattern of the dark emerald tendrils, which snapped and sparked from the spell's anchor to each of the enchanted men, it became so obvious to him. So, so, _obvious_.

_The sword. The sword in the stone._

Could it _be _any more ironic? Yes, yes, it was hysterical, and Merlin laughed harder.

The three knights and Escetian king were staring at him with gaping mouths, but Arthur—Arthur was the only one to hear the whisper of Merlin's magic around him and the only one to feel the incessant tug of Excalibur's call. The king's eyes had widened in realization before he rearranged his expression as only the son of Uther Pendragon could, and Merlin saw the subtle glint of something devious, something confident and proud and _unwavering_…

And Arthur, knowing exactly what it was he had to do, waited and watched.

The others, however, were baffled by Merlin's humor, and gently, so as to not startle them and consequently give himself away, he brushed against their minds. _For now,_ _be prepared, _he murmured._ Kilgharrah will be here within minutes._

While he would have _preferred_ to capitalize on his advantage and attack her when she was hesitant, it was necessary. To keep her attention off of his companions, whose shock had quickly worn off and whose relief was so powerful that it was _tangible _andpounded like rapids into Merlin's back, he had to speak. He needed the others ready, focused…

"Nothing more funny than whatever it was _you _were laughing at," the warlock finally snickered aloud, raising his head to look at her. "What happened to your jokes Morgana?" (1)

She was unnerved. He saw it through her mask of fury, but she put on a good show. When her eyes narrowed into a lethal glare that would have petrified any sane man, Merlin merely grinned more broadly than before.

"Go on!" he continued cheerfully. "Don't let me stop you from having your fun."

He sensed the madness raging within her, and suspicious to the core, she shrieked, voice breaking and magic spiking, "No! No, that is _it! _What. Is. So. Amusing?! _Tell me now!_"

Kilgharrah's snarl reverberated within his mind, and instead of becoming incensed at Morgana's words—because Kilgharrah had a point: who was _she _to demand _anything _of _him_?—Merlin sobered immediately because…this wasn't funny. No, this was most certainly not funny. This woman once fed hungry refugees, once rode with him to Ealdor, and once made men's jaws drop to the floor. She was once a friend and a genuinely beautiful person, and now, as she stood before him in her ragged black dress, half of her hair shorn off…her eyes and her magic so lost, so wild, so terrifyingly _devoid _of any light, save that of greed and power…

It struck him again how sad and pathetic she was.

And it hurt to see that her righteous impulsiveness, which had characterized her greatest acts of compassion in the past, had morphed into this—this thoughtless and careless confidence. It had been one of her greatest strengths, and now, twisted beyond all recognition, it was her greatest weakness. For, in following the whims of her heart and the emotions of the moment, she ceased to use her head and contemplate the consequences of her actions, and in her madness and in her complete and utter faith in the infallibility of her magic, she was slipping further and further down a steep precipice and had long since lost any hope of finding a foothold to regain the ground she had lost.

It was too late for her.

Without removing his gaze from Morgana, he slowly uncurled his limbs from the ground. Pleased with the effortlessness of his movements and with the lack of pain of both magical and physical origins, he snapped the connection to the stone and narrowed the bridge between his soul and Kilgharrah's, leaving only enough open so that he could monitor the dragon's approach...

_Be ready to cover Arthur and I, _he ordered as he raised himself to his feet and, for the first time since escaping the fire, held his stance steady and strong.

She backed awayfrom him…

_Excalibur is solely fueling the enchantment over her men, and with it out of her hands now…she's only got her own magic to depend upon for the fight. _

…her feral mask cracked ever so slightly, and if that wasn't enough to prove to everyone that she was fully aware of the shift in power, the men, connected through mind and magic, shuffled in response to their mistress' unease.

All except Kay.

_Kay_.

He stared for a moment at the unresponsive knight, whose timber-wolf _aura _ebbed and surged like choppy tides, before adding slowly, _Kay. Try not to harm him. Something—something's not…_

"Stand down, Emrys_!" _Morgana screamed, forcing him to snap her gaze back to her once more. With a wave of her hand, each of her enchanted men snapped their arms to their side and withdrew their swords. "You may have more lives than a cockroach, but you're outnumbered and outmatched," the witch taunted.

Weak. Such a weak, weak taunt.

And so _banal._

_Arthur will get the sword…_

Despite the growl that edged his voice, it was with a hint of pity and weariness that he pulled his lips into a humorless smile and said, "You've just made a _big_ miscalculation, Morgana."

…_And I will deal with _her_._

Accompanied by a raw shout, his magic, which had been aching for freedom, gushed forth in a glorious _burst_, feeling not unlike a big belch, but he was neither able to appreciate the relief nor the exhilarating strength and _fluidity_ of it.

The force of his wave had pushed Morgana over a table and into the wall, stunning her, and every last one of the enchanted men had their feet kicked up from under them. Sick squelching noises and several cracks and snaps could be heard as the men crashed to the floor, and having the decency to cringe at their misfortune—for it was unsettling to realize that these people were so lost that they didn't have the presence of mind to catch themselves or avoid their own weapons as they fell—Merlin realized he didn't have much time to appreciate the benefits of his destructive spell.

Some of them were already beginning to lumber to their feet. Morgana herself had disappeared behind a mass of broken objects, but since there was no telling when she'd reappear or _how _she'd reappear, he had to take advantage of Morgana's weakness while he had the chance. Because, while the warlock couldn't deny that Morgana had been right in saying that they were _physically_ outnumbered, there was _no _reason why he couldn't even those odds…

After flashing his gaze around the room and finding nothing more than piles upon piles of stone, destroyed wood and weapons, and shattered glass to work with, it came to him in a blazing fanfare of bits and pieces that formed a remarkably brilliant, yet admittedly _crazy,_ idea.

Merlin quickly glanced to Kay to ensure he was unharmed before jerking his head toward Lancelot, Gwaine, and Arthur, the only three of their party able to stand and fight (though there was no lack of trying from Percival and Lot, whom had taken up arms to protect themselves). While the others began to incapacitate some of Morgana's men so that they could not rejoin the fight, Merlin and Arthur wasted no time. The king dashed to the sword in the middle of the room, and turning to the large pile of rubble and daring to believe that his plan would work despite the immense power it required, Merlin threaded his magic through that of the Earth's and began to chant quickly, "Stánas, scypaþ. Forsciepaþ into þæt gesceap—" (2)

A yelp interrupted him, and recognizing the voice, Merlin promptly ignored the masonry under his control and shouted, "Arthur!"

The king was reaching cautiously toward the hilt of Excalibur with a determined and confused expression on his face, but when the cloud of twilit-emerald energy that shielded the powerful weapon came in contact with his skin, he hissed again and retreated, shaking out his hand as he went. "I can't touch it," Arthur bit out. "The energy field…I can only see it when I—_duck_!"

Merlin reacted instantly and felt a rush of heat pass over his head. Gritting his teeth, the warlock waved his hand toward his stones, which were molding and folding inward on themselves in midair in expectation for his final order. "Hunda! Hunda!" he commanded. (3)

The drain on his powers was not as significant as he had expected, but he had part two of his plan yet to complete. The warlock had time to see the clay-like stones begin to shape themselves into a vague four-legged creature before Morgana sent another blast of black heat sailing toward him. Merlin barely dodged and shot a bolt of fire towards her at the last second, but when it flew a little wide, she was given the chance to magically bat him to the side like a cat would a dead mouse and command in an imperious shriek, "Áríseaþ! Áríseaþ ond þéowaþ þone færníþ!" (4)

Easily rolling off the table he'd been rammed into, the warlock jumped up by the time that the men, with the exception of the unconscious and dead, had risen to their feet and brandished their weapons. Morgana had been watching his army of stone dogs with a crazed sneer on her face, and he only vaguely heard her repeating some shrill order over and over as he shouted, "Bebiede þe arisan cwicum." (5)

The power it would require to breathe true life into each of the creatures and create them as independent things, as the warlock had done once long ago—not only would the Earth hardly allow so much life to be created by magical means, but it would also be too much for one man. Even for Emrys. However, he had the power to give them mobility and purpose, so when they began to shift in place, pulling their lips over their teeth and flattening their ears against their heads, he reined in his magic to prevent it from going to far and giving them flesh, blood, and minds of their own. To redirect the power, he barked, "Áfiehtaþ balocræfte ond ámundaaþ mín eaxlgesteallum." (6)

The wall of smooth black collided with one of animated stone, and amongst the grating sound of the dogs' snarls, the _shings_ of metal bouncing off them and creating nicks in their false coats, and the thumps of dead bodies, Merlin and Morgana fought. Their shots lit the room with blasts of color and fire, but the warlock only had half a mind on the witch, whose attacks were more like bothersome bugs that needed to be swatted away than anything. Instead, he focused on studying the energy field in the hope that he could…

There! After one particularly forceful stunning spell that Morgana barely managed to block, Merlin saw it. Faltering, spluttering…the spell protecting the blade reacted as Morgana's energy and stamina decreased.

But it wasn't enough, not enough… It was connected to her magic in such a complicated way that the moment she used a spell again, the barrier would flare back up, no matter how disheveled, weak, or tired the witch appeared. Alternatively gauging the strength of her defensive spells, offensive spells, and the reaction of the shield to each, Merlin realized that knocking her unconscious wouldn't even be enough to break through to Excalibur; her magic, so long as she was still alive, would remain active and continue to protect the sword from its true master's touch.

_So long as she was still alive…_

He was so distracted that, in his attempt to block one of Morgana's spells, he nearly slipped in some of the spilled Lybb on the ground, and recoiling at its proximity to him, he spun away from it and found himself back-to-back with Arthur, who had been holding his position nearest the sword.

Upon noticing Merlin, the king retreated slightly from the mass, wiped his brow, and muttered to him, "This is insanity! I don't know how much longer I can keep this up without hurting him. Kay's—" He paused to heave someone away from him and continued swiftly, "—fighting it, but…"

At his tone of voice, Merlin immediately drew his eyes away from the Lybb and sought out the ex-knight, and oh, yes, he found him. He found him fighting Arthur. The king had just locked blades with him and had pushed him away, causing him to stumble and crash into another similarly glassy-eyed man.

It hurt to see him like this, and he wracked his brain for something—anything—to help Kay free himself…

"Ah. I see that he's _really _fighting it, Arthur," Merlin eventually said grimly, deflecting a stray spell that Morgana had been trying to use against a dog that got its teeth a little too close for her liking.

"No need for sarcasm," the king muttered. "You saw it before all of us. I didn't have reason to believe it until Morgana had to repeat her order multiple times to make him _move_. His attacks, too, falter—"

Arthur's words were abruptly cut off by a grunt, and without thinking, Merlin summoned a wall of air to push Kay away from his king before redirecting it toward Morgana, who seemed to have not enough to do if her screaming was anything to go by. He didn't necessarily understand why she seemed to think that continuously yelling at her men would make them any smarter. They didn't protect themselves or _her_ from his hounds, which targeted them immediately whenever her dark words were repeated to reinforce the enchantment.

But so long as she was still alive…

Breathing heavily, Arthur shot him a grateful, weary smile and asked, "Have you any idea how to lower that barrier around the sword, Merlin?"

_So long as she was still alive…_

His eyes drifted back to the slick black potion on the ground, and as he fought with the fear and bile rising in his throat, he said slowly, "I—I'm working on it."

_So long as she was still alive_…

The idea that had been clambering for dominance finally broke free to the forefront of his mind, and Merlin almost gagged at the _reality _of it. Because...how could he, in good conscience, do onto her as she did onto him?

_Anything _but that. No, he couldn't. _Wouldn't._

But…how did _this _compare to outright killing? Killing her was easy; it was a simple solution, and as a dangerous enemy and traitor, Morgana would have been put to death a thousand times over by Arthur or any of the other kings had they been given the chance. It was a fitting punishment for anyone with her sins, and with his energy restored, he could so easily…

And all his problems would be gone.

_This_, however, wouldn't kill her. Not completely anyway. If he was right, and any amount of the anti-magic was the _perfect _amount—it was createdof her magic, and because it _knew _her, the Lybb would dissolve her magic as easily as water did sugar—so if he was right, part of her _would_ die, and maybe, just maybe, without her sister's poison within her, she might have a chance for redemption…

He studied the shell of the woman he once knew, and as he contemplated his options, he wondered if there was any such thing as mercy anymore. If the only options were an easy death without redemption and love or a hard life without magic and a chance to reform, what mercy was there?

But…for him, the answer came immediately. If he had the choice, he knew what he'd choose, and now, he knew what he could…and what he couldn't live with.

~…~

He didn't sink.

He was floating. Just floating. It was comparable to the very moment that Sleep overcame the night or the very moment that Sleep gave way to the new day… except it was perpetual. It was dark, but it wasn't the dark that pervaded all the senses and struck fear into the minds of even the bravest of men. In _this_ darkness, there were no nightmares, and yet it was strong enough that no din or bright light or pain could break through and interrupt him from his state of slumber. Yes, it was comfortable, peaceful, and soothing to feel movement around him as though it were soothing bathwater, to hear the sounds around him as nothing more than musical, muffled murmurs from under the water…He didn't want to leave, he didn't want to think, and he sure as hell didn't want to be anywhere but here. In this moment. In this time.

He liked floating and sleeping. He liked baths. It was nice. It was—

It was as though a servant had suddenly poured a whole jug of cold water onto his head, and his mind jerked at the unwelcome, encompassing chill and began to shudder at the sensation of it.

_Get up, _the cold whispered to him forcefully.

He was lying down? Huh. He supposed he was_, _he mused lazily. Logic said that the order wouldn't have been given otherwise, and he liked to think he was a logical person. Logic had kept him alive for this long, hadn't it?

_Had it?_

The chill stabbed at him again, dragging him further from his half-awake state of consciousness. _Get up_, _and fight!_

He didn't find the cold particularly kind for disrupting his peace, so he didn't really care to do as it said. All he wanted was to be left alone in the darkness where there _was _such a thing as peace. Unfortunately, the cold didn't seem to appreciate being ignored, and he was rewarded for his disobedience by a biting backlash so powerful it hurt.

Detachedly, he felt his body rise in response, and it was odd because it wasn't _his _decision to rise. The cold, though, wanted him to, and if it was being so _insistent_ about it…

_Why, though? Why? _

The question seemed to come from nowhere, and his fingers twitched. The fingers that were his—no, not his, the moment was gone. Well. Whatever. _Whoever's_ fingers they were. For one moment, he had led himself to believe that it was a solid, _real_ hilt in those fingers and that he had actually recognized the blade. His, perhaps? For a moment, he might have found comfort in the familiarity. He might have used it to ground himself, but it was lost.

And he floated again.

The murmurs were louder than they were before, and instead of hearing the songs of dreams and nymphs, he could distinguish them as human voices. Part of him strained to understand because he had always _hated_ being kept in the dark—it was a part of the reason why he had been such a good spy, after all...

_Wait, that's strange…_

Damn those voices! Couldn't they just… go _away _for a moment? He couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't…

Couldn't. He couldn't do _anything_. He didn't feel anything, see anything… _know anything_…

Just the dusk and the water and the peace. No, no, there was turbulence all around him. He could _tell_. The noises, the movement…he was being protected from it. Smothered? Protected? Was there a difference? He—he didn't know. The world—it wasn't like _this_. Not the real world anyway.

_Right_?

_What…what was—?_

His fingers twitched as the cold reached for him again, but for some reason, it passed him by and hit…

The cold that had been dumped over him was nothing more than a prick of a needle in comparison to the blaze of the sun.

The sun? No, it may have been golden, bright, bold, _alive_, but that was magic. He felt it before. He knew this magic, and at the conscious recognition, a spear of awareness suddenly shattered the surface of his prison and drove deep, allowing realityto flood in and a pinprick of light to emerge…

_Cai. _(7)

Ah, _that_ was his name… and yet not his name? Kay. Kay was _his, _he remembered. But Cai? Cai had a strange accent to it, a strange inflection and _power_ that wasn't his—Kay knew power was no good for him, so it shouldn't be his—and even though it was impersonal and cold, the sound of it struck him deep, somewhere far beyond his awareness' reach.

The cold jabbed at him and hissed, _Cai, __ácwylme __Arturus. (8)_

Kay's eyes—they _were _his eyes, after all—flickered back from the source of the cold to the sun and sky…

Arthur. But—

Wrong.

_Cai, __ácwylme __Arturus._

That wasn't right, was it? He was pretty sure…there was a reason. He had a reason, and tracking the movement around him, he squinted in an attempt to find something defining, something he could use to figure out what the hell was going on…

_No, this makes no sense!_ _Why—why would I…?_

The order was given again, and this time, he recognized his target's critical, cautious blue eyes amongst the blur. This time, he saw the source of the sun being rammed into a table and a knight knocking a man down with a single kick to the gut. He saw swords flashing, and he saw the cold.

She was cold.

_Cai! __Ácwylme!__ Ácwylme __Arturus!_

His instincts rebelled against the order, and as his muscles jerked of their own accord and hefted his sword into fighting position without his permission, he struggled to stop himself from doing as the cold bid. Like a marionette on strings, he was forced to lunge forward, and his sword clashed against his opponent's.

The young man shoved him away easily and said, "Kay. Listen to me. You don't want to do this."

The cold burned. It was insatiable, demanding, and tenacious. Even so, the king was right. He didn't want to. He really didn't. This was Arthur. Arthur _meant_ something. Yet still, his sword arm rose, and with a roar that did not belong to him, he swung down again brutishly and haphazardly.

It was done in disgustingly poor form, he realized, and his lips twisted into a dissatisfied scowl.

And for a moment, the marionette strings couldn't force him to move because—because that was _his _scowl? Not the result of her command?

Hers? Bitterly, he wondered when he became _anyone's _to command, and oddly enough, a sense of déjà vu swept over him.

Needless to say, Arthur had caught the poor blow with his sword and had easily deflected it. "Dammit, Kay," he shouted. "I know you're in there! You've never _once _tried to hit me like _that_! Not even when we were children with our first wooden swords! You were always the most crafty of us all."

Kay _could _fight better than that, couldn't he? Didn't he take _pride _in his sword- and dagger-play? And even more than that, didn't he pride in being able to best even the great Arthur Pendragon, who stood before him now with a soot-streaked face, pleading blue eyes, and old, borrowed armor?

Arthur Pendragon. The man he had been ordered to kill.

From the look in his eyes, the king knew that Kay had been ordered to kill him. He knew, but he didn't want to fight him.

"Kay."

When he squinted again at him, the king's golden hair blurred in and out of focus. All around them the black cloaks and sashes swam like smoke, and flashes of silver and color permeated the fog as the warlock and the witch, the knights, and the dogs weaved in and out, in and out…

"Don't forget all that you've done," Arthur murmured.

Don't forget. _Remember_.

_It had been his choice. He was somebody's after all, wasn't he? _

The cold goaded Kay with a good jab before he could turn over the king's words in his mind, and sick to his stomach, the ex-knight was dragged into exchanging a flurry of half-hearted blows with Arthur, who remained on the defensive and never once allowed himself to lose ground.

All warriors learned to recognize their fellow knights and enemies' fighting styles. His muscles _remembered _before his mind could, and when he realized that this Arthur Pendragon was the man he had learned to fight with…

_What the hell? What was—what was he doing? _

Steel kissed his flesh, and reflexively, he dropped the sword to cling at the injured arm just as he tripped backwards into another person. The fine edge of Arthur's blade dripped with Kay's blood, and stunned by the reality of the pain, the ex-knight pushed himself to his feet and stumbled to pick up the fallen weapon as Arthur retreated to stand back-to-back with the warlock…

Merlin.

The sting of the flesh wound brought him ever closer to the surface, and seeing them together, he burst forth and immediately felt horror gathering in the pit of his stomach when he noticed the insanity and chaos surrounding him.

_What had he done?_

His king and Merlin both looked unharmed. In fact, Merlin looked far better than he recalled seeing him, and as he relaxed and allowed the horror to uncoil, he felt the enchantment within him tugging him back, back into the cozy cocoon he had been ensnared in…

The wind was nearly knocked out of him by Merlin when he got too close, and he flew backward only to be brought to his feet again.

No more. He wasn't about to let his mind go. Not again, and inwardly, he screamed and thrashed as his body continued to do as Morgana had commanded.

No small amount of fear accompanied the thought of her name, but when he caught sight of her behind Merlin, she seemed to be having some problems with the stone dogs and stray wind from the warlock's spell ripping at the hem of her dress, and Kay wished he had it in his capability to laugh.

It hurt to try. Any attempt to regain control of his movements was nullified by the frigidness of the poison and amplified enchantment that had yet to leave his system, and when he had to make a conscientious effort to prevent himself from sliding back…

Stalking toward the pair of men, Kay caught Merlin's blank, distant gaze, and the Court Sorcerer was so lost in his thoughts that he nearly saw him skewered by one of Morgana's stray spells. It was only thanks to a quick reaction from Arthur and a hiss of "pay attention, Merlin!" that snapped the warlock from his daze.

In that moment, the warlock's eyes met Kay's, but before he could find some way to get a message to either of them—to tell them that they'd better stop playing the hero and bloody knock him out already because he couldn't stop it—a dog shot out of nowhere and tackled Merlin to the ground just as Kay, who had been cursing the cost of trying to fight, who had been pulling and pulling and pulling to no avail, finally swung for Arthur's head. The sound of cracking ribs and Morgana's insane laughter broke through the noise of battle.

"Merlin!" Gwaine, who, along with Lancelot, had been forced from his defensive position near Arthur and Excalibur when Percival and Lot had become stuck in a tough spot, cried from across the room. "Arthur, she's gained control of some dogs!"

Arthur gritted his teeth and couldn't help but try to turn his head to seek out his friends, but Kay demanded his attention with a tricky side cut. However, due to his worry for Merlin, Kay _slipped_, and despite all previous promises to himself… under he went. Back under the surface of darkness, bathwater, and sleep, where there were no troubles, no worries, no battles, and no irritation or pain…

Before he could be submerged to the point of no return, Kay shoved aside the damning comfort of the enchantment—_it is a trap, _he screamed at himself repeatedly, _a trap_—and by the skin of his teeth, he managed to grip the edge.

Hanging there—it felt like he'd been drawn and quartered, a horrific punishment that Kay had only bore witness to while visiting the tribesman of the Nemetonan Plains with Cenred to negotiate a war treaty. (9) It was a memory he had tried so hard to forget, but that hadn't stopped it from replaying in his dreams. This, though, was worse than the dreams because here, his fears were _real_, and half of him was holding on for dear life while the other was being beaten and dragged along…

The commotion around him faded in and out, as did his control over what he could and couldn't see, but when he heard the screaming and when a strange vibration reverberated along his sword-arm, he knew he _had_ to get back into his head _immediately_.

It was so _heavy _and cold.

So cold.

Yet he remembered. He wasn't so gone that he couldn't _remember_, and with his own vows whispering in his ears, he heaved…

After a great deal of indescribable effort, his consciousness regained its proper place, and he almost wished he could go back under and stay there.

Lot was bleeding from a new head wound, but miraculously, he was still awake. Percival couldn't move as his wounded leg was trapped underneath the body of a beheaded stone dog, but he struggled and yelled himself hoarse. He struggled, and tears streaked down the grime and blood coating his face.

Morgana was straddling and choking Merlin, whose eyes were ablaze with fury, and it—it was in her hand. A vial was in her hand, but she was turning. Turning to watch...

Lancelot and Gwaine—they were too far away. Surrounded by men of the Lybb, they were too far away to stop her. Too far away to stop _him_.

Arthur was sprawled before him. Unarmed. Vulnerable. Somehow, while he had been battling for his mind, the damn enchanted body of his had disarmed his king and was now approaching, stalking…

The sword in his shaking hand was rising.

Those blue eyes bore through him, and even as those who were fearful for the king's life called their names, even as Morgana's lips started to twist cruelly at the approaching death of her brother…Arthur did not speak. He had already backed himself as far away from Kay as he could before running into Excalibur's barrier of emerald green.

The king didn't need to speak. He didn't need to move. The eyes were enough, but those soon slid shut in preparation for his strike.

Tears began to spill, but the sword continued to rise.

No, no, not this. He couldn't. _Wouldn't_. Not after everything.

He remembered the monster he could become. He remembered strength of the hallucinations: the blood on his hands and the haunted eyes. He remembered himself at his most cowardly…and at his most brave.

He had been given a second chance. He had been given a chance because Merlin and his oldest friend had not only found it in themselves to forgive him but had also seen something in him that he thought had been absent for a long time. Faith. Loyalty. Trust. Dedication. Pride. They had given him his confidence back, and they had thought his friendship had been worth fighting for.

And hadn't that been the question whose answer he had been seeking since he'd been sent away to serve as a spy under Cenred? Since his father died? Since before he could remember?

_What is it you live for_? _And what is it you'd die for?_

"Goodbye, dear _brother_," Morgana purred.

Arthur reopened his eyes, and without a sound, Kay gathered what strength he could and swung the sword down.

And Arthur was soaked through with blood.

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The hand that Kay had just sacrificed for his king, for his freedom, fell from his wrist and lay twitching in the rapidly growing puddle of crimson.

Abruptly lightheaded from the pain, the shock, and the blood loss, Kay let his sword fall, clutched his stump to his chest, and fell to his knees, but it wasn't until Morgana released a blood-curdling scream of rage, followed by one of pain, and until the loud _boom _indicating the arrival of Merlin's dragon suddenly shook the underground chambers that Kay knew he did well.

Curling inward on himself, Kay watched his blood pool around him with a detached, morbid fascination, and as the chambers continued to shake with the force of Kilgharrah's roars and fire and as his claws and mighty jaws dug and dug away at the courtyard above, the knight weakly looked toward the ceiling, where a sliver of sunlight and blue sky was beginning to peek through.

He thought he laughed. Or at least tried to. He didn't know why he did, but he did anyway. He might be a dead man, but he was _free_. Arthur was alive and had been at his side from the moment he fell, trying to stem the flow of blood and muttering things that Kay could not understand, and Merlin—Merlin had escaped Morgana's hold and now stood over _her_.

And it appeared that Kilgharrah accidentally came across the courtyard's well while trying to get into the room, and that just made him laugh anyway.

Because while Kay blinked at the sight of his blood being washed away and while he mused airily that his cousin and the townspeople wouldn't be too pleased that their most popular well was now out of commission, Merlin took advantage of the water pouring from above, and it was a beautiful thing.

So beautiful.

He felt a deep peace and satisfaction when Merlin, eyes full of pity, disgust, and determination, took a vial of Lybb and served it to the witch trapped within the glistening prison he'd made for her, and after toppling sideways into the mixture of water and blood without the solid presence of his king to hold him up, the last thing Kay saw was Arthur reuniting with Excalibur.

He finally sighed…

And let go.

~…~

Some say that everyone has a purpose in life, that each human being is each put on this Earth to do something and to be somebody. A portion of these people might think that they were born into their calling, and they realize it, embrace it, and strive for it their entire lives. The other portion struggles to find their individual paths and finds solace in the fact that there are paths waiting for them at all. Others would rather scoff at the notion of fate and instead just live and love in the moment, for nothing can deny them the freedom of being true to themselves.

Kay had been crawling in the dark. All these years…and now, Arthur thought that he had finally found the light. Had he been directed by fate? Offered the choice? Arthur couldn't say, but as he watched Kay's eyes beading with infuriated, sad tears, he knew they were tears of a man who was fighting for the right to follow _his _path….and who realized that he might just fail.

Arthur had backed up to the emerald barrier. He heard his knights and Merlin thrashing, pushing, and yelling, but there was no time for any of them to reach him. Not even Merlin could reach him now, injured as he was. He knew that he was alone. Kay couldn't stop, and even though Arthur tried to reach through to him, he realized that there was nothing that could make him stop now. When the sword rose above Kay's head, the Once and Future King finally closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and prayed that with his death, Merlin, Gwen, and the others wouldn't blame themselves. That they would continue to fight and live and laugh and love without him.

And that the whole of Camelot would finally be at peace after his warlock slayed his sister.

He didn't regret the lost chance to say goodbye. For a man like him, a goodbye was like giving into failure. It was like accepting an ending… when all he had ever fought for was to preserve the chance to begin. No, his only regret was that he wouldn't be there with them to see it all happen.

He wasn't afraid, and he wanted to be sure that Kay _knew _that there was nothing that could be done, that it wasn't his fault or his responsibility. So, with Morgana's goodbye echoing in his ears, Arthur opened his eyes in time to see the sword slashing downwards, to see Kay's left arm shooting into its path, to see the calculated concentration in his eyes, to see the severed hand fall…

It may have just been the bravest thing that Arthur had ever witnessed in his life, and his heart nearly stopped when Kay crumpled to the floor...

While he remained unharmed.

Merlin's distraught and livid cry was more powerful than even Morgana's loud shrieks of rage, and the uncontrollable magic accompanying his voice shattered stonework all around the king. From the corner of his eye, he saw the warlock blast Morgana in the face. She retreated with a shrill scream of pain as the flesh on her face melted away while Merlin rolled shakily to his feet and scooped up the small object that had fallen from her hand.

Lybb. He had it.

"Kilgharrah's here!" Merlin growled unnecessarily as the dragon landed above them.

He and Merlin caught each other's gaze and exchanged a look that said nothing and everything, and with an unreadable expression flashing in his eyes, Merlin turned back to the witch convulsing on the ground and clutching at her face. Simultaneously, Arthur, coated in Kay's blood, returned his attention to the knight, who had tucked his arm to his chest in a vain effort to shield himself from further harm, and skidded to his side. It amazed him that the knight was still conscious, but the tears glazing his pain-filled teal eyes and the sobs and quivers wracking his frame told him all.

Releasing a sob of his own and ignoring the rest of the world around him, Arthur tried to gently ease Kay's arm into the open, but since the knight's muscles had locked, he didn't want to cause any more damage and had to make do.

"I can't believe you did that," Arthur muttered as he began to tear apart his shirt. His fingers were trembling and slick with the blood of sacrifice. "Hell. I can't believe you did that. I—I remember how much you loved to trick us… by pulling a dagger on us while sparring on the training fields, d'you remember? You did that back in Camelot all the time, and you got into a lot of trouble by pulling that stunt against the senior knights when they were trying to instruct us on how to be honorable in battle. You always joked that a purely honorable fighter was always the first one dead. And now—now y-you…for me. Because I was-wasn't good enough to help prevent this from happening. Dammit, Kay. I always—" Fear gripped him when Kay's eyelids suddenly fluttered, and without thinking, he shook the knight's shoulders and shouted above Kilgharrah's booming snarls and pounding claws, "C'mon, stay with me, Kay!"

A rush of roaring drowned most of his words, and he looked up into a geyser of mist.

"Well, there goes the well!" Lot shouted, sounding slightly dazed and hysterical.

Kay, wobbling on his knees and bracing himself against Arthur, blinked and attempted what the king assumed was supposed to be a laugh, and he too dragged his head up to watch.

Morgana didn't stand a chance.

Sparkling in the sunlight and spraying high into the air, the water was directed directly into Morgana's midsection, and it knocked her over and trapped her, along with quite a few of her followers, in a continuously rolling wave that forced their heads under. All the while, Merlin draped one arm across his broken ribs, and with his other hand, he conducted the water to form streams and columns of ice.

The underground chambers became a cathedral of winter, and at the center, where there should have been a carved and ornate altar, there was Morgana, unconscious and trapped within a shell of thick ice.

Arthur was loath to leave Kay, but he had to play his part. He shifted his friend over and stumbled to his feet as Merlin approached his sister's head, the only part of her body that was free of the prison, and uncorked the vial of Lybb. The warlock hesitated for a single moment to look to his king, but when Arthur, heart in his throat, nodded, Merlin closed his eyes, whispered a spell, and pressed the trembling vial to her lips.

Morgana's puppets came to a complete standstill, and just as Merlin coaxed the witch to swallow, Arthur reached for Excalibur's familiar hilt and pulled it from the ground, and those black-cloaked bastards fell as a single entity.

For a moment, there was complete silence. The only sound that could be heard was stone crumbling, the ebbing flow of water, and Kilgharrah's breathing, and it was he who melted the ice so that Morgana's limp form fell into Gwaine's arms.

Scowling deeply, the knight dropped her the few meters from his arms to the ground immediately after catching her. He and Lancelot, who had rushed to help remove the stone dog from Percival's leg, followed right behind Merlin once the giant of a knight and Lot assured them that they were not lethally injured and could be looked to after Kay.

Merlin hadn't stayed behind to watch Morgana's mutilated face twist into a grimace as the drug she'd developed for Emrys worked its way through her body and destroyed her magic.

None of them did.

Muttering spells to heal his ribs under his breath as he went, the warlock hobbled directly to Kay. In anticipation for the magic Merlin would need to perform and the space he would require, Arthur flipped the man over and quickly backed away so that Merlin could kneel and immediately begin to work on his severed wrist.

"That was an incredible thing you did, Kay," Merlin said to the unconscious man as he drew a shaky breath and brushed away tears. Long fingers beginning to trace healing runes in the air above Kay's chest, he closed his eyes and called, "'Gharrah, I need your help!"

There was a warning growl—Lot's men must be petrified up there, Arthur realized—before the dragon's head snaked in through the hole he had created from the courtyard. After studying Kay, he said regretfully, "It is too late to save his hand, and he might be too far gone, young warlock. We must make haste. His life fades, and Camelot beckons."

"Do everything you can," Arthur demanded, his voice unsteady. "Whatever you can."

Kilgharrah bowed his head, and as Merlin's eyes began to glow so brightly that gold overcame his pupils, the dragon exhaled onto Kay.

Kay was pale as death, and every second that passed felt like an eternity to Arthur. He watched Merlin's hands tracing runes and watched his lips move as the spells spilled off of his lips, and he hoped it was enough. He couldn't watch Kay die because of this, and he sure as hell didn't want to let him go now that he had him back.

Eventually, the gold faded from Merlin's eyes, and he gasped weakly, leaned away, and laced his fingers through his hair.

Kay didn't look any better, and Arthur flashed his gaze from the wounded knight to Merlin, who looked exhausted in every sense of the word, and back again, the one question that he wanted to ask stuck in his throat.

It turned out that the question hadn't needed to be asked at all, for slowly, while Merlin opened his eyes, a grin began to spread across his face.

"He's a fighter."

There were celebratory shouts from their party. Arthur himself choked on a giddy bubble of relieved, happy, and overwhelmed laughter, and when he drew his arm around Merlin's shoulders, the warlock said quietly, "Arthur, we're all okay. We're all going to be alright. _We won._"

* * *

><p>(1) Just a reminder because it's been MONTHS… refer to the taunting in Part I<p>

(2) Translation: Stones, take shape. Transform into the form—

(3) Translation: Of hounds! Of hounds!

(4) Translation: Get up! Get up and press the hostile attack!

(5) Translation: (according to Merlin Spells Wiki – used in 1x02) I command you to rise up to life.

(6) Translation: Fight the pernicious art/magic and defend my friends/shoulder-companions.

(7) Yes, I do realize that Kay and Cai are the same names and are interchangeable. I just thought it'd be cool if characters had a different form of their names for spells in the "Old Tongue."

(8) Translation: Kay, kill Arthur. (Also check out the origins of Arthur's name if you want to learn more about where I got 'Arturus.')

(9) In 5x03, Arthur and Merlin travel to the Stones of Nemeton. According to Wikipedia, a nemeton was a sacred place to those who were of the ancient Celtic religion. I have taken the liberty to name the plains they rode through after the Nemetes/Nemeti (tribe's) goddess Nemetona, whose name is closely related to the word "nemeton" (obviously). I know drawing and quartering was a very real punishment in England for high treason, but since the only major punishments in Camelot were for that of sorcery (death by drowning, beheading, or fire) or for treason (hanging) or for speaking the truth (exile), I decided to use it in this way. SO, YES, THIS IS HISTORICALLY INACCURATE. On another note: fascinating things you learn by clicking all the hyperlinks on a Wikipedia page.

AN: ...well, there we have it! I hope I managed to surprise you all! Back to Camelot next chapter...and honestly, I do think that there's not too much of this fic left! No worries, however, I have another fic in the works. Completely new AU universe, too. :D

Sorry for any and all mistakes. Thanks for reading!

Oz out.


	27. The Double-Edge

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: Hello, all! I've got a mini-chapter here for you! It wasn't what I promised (the next chapter will begin with aGwen POV, let me assure you), but I thought it was better than nothing, especially after so long a wait. *sighs* School's going well, though, and I actually discovered that I really enjoy Organic Chemistry, which is supposed to be the bane of all pre-health majors. It's challenging, no doubt, but it's a _fun _sort of challenging.

Speaking of fun, you can thank carinims01 for encouraging me to write a short Rise of the Gaurdians fic! It's my first time writing outside of the Merlin fandom, so hopefully I don't screw it up. I'm having a blast, though, so I suppose that's all that matters. xD I'm about a third of the way through it, if you're interested to know.

Continuing on that train of thought, I had fun with this, too! After 4 chapters of Morgana and Merlin battling it out, I thought some angsty bromance was _long _overdue. ;P Also, guys...this may be the second to last chapter. It's seriously so close to the end I can almost taste it.

Thank you, everyone, and enjoy!

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><p><strong>The Double-Edge<strong>

It was over.

It was over, and Kay would live.

The threat of infection and rotting flesh had been combated by his magic and would not trouble the knight as he recovered from the massive shock, accelerated healing, and the blood loss, and that itself had been a blessing. A huge blessing.

His—his hand, however…

Merlin couldn't save it. He could scarcely look at it lying in the pool of Kay's blood nor could he look at the empty vial that kept it company, and swallowing harshly, he focused on the now completely healed stump that remained.

It was surprising how much Merlin had been able to accomplish with Kilgharrah's help, and he focused on the positives: how it was a good thing that Kay would not have to deal with the annoyance of stitches and bandages and how, now, all that Kay had to worry about was getting better and learning to live without his left hand and with the phantom pains…

As he tried to stand to tend to the others' injuries, everything that happened suddenly became _real. _Morgana, the ice, the blood, the hand, the Lybb…it was like a living dream, fluid and continuous. He had moved with the dream like a boat would with the current—knowing it, experiencing it, but never _realizing _it—and he was detached from it all. Or he had been. Until now. His dream-self's smile of joyful relief dropped from his face, and heheaved forward and nearly lost his stomach's meager contents.

It was the first time he'd ever thought that relief could be double-edged. Like fear. Like trust. For in one's fear, great exploits could be accomplished just as easily as terrible mistakes could be made. In one's trust, one could make a lifelong friend and live or discover a bitter enemy and die. In one's relief…it was amazing to release all worries, all troubles, and all stress, but sometimes, that very feeling was accompanied by the horror of what was, what nearly had been, and what remained.

This was one of those times, and he…_dear gods_…

Arthur's hand gripped his shoulder in order to steady him, and Kilgharrah's breath ruffled his hair comfortingly from behind. Their presence grounded him and pulled him away from the abyss of crushing awareness and horror.

"Steady there," the king murmured shakily, his ashen face streaked with blood. Merlin's arm wound around his friend's, and he kneaded his fingers into the chainmail, clutching at it fiercely.

"Merlin—" Kilgharrah began sympathetically.

"Not now, Kilgharrah," he snapped, well aware of their pressing need to get back to Camelot. "Just…give me a moment. Please."

The dragon did not argue, surprisingly enough, and instead, he bowed his head and said, "You did well, young warlock."

"At what cost?" he whispered hoarsely as his eyes landed on Morgana's still form.

Sniffing, Gwaine admitted bluntly, "I would have killed her."

Merlin shook his head and swallowed bile. He did not want to respond. He did not want to explain himself or dwell on what he'd done and what had happened; it was sick and awful and detrimentally _shameful_ and yet…

As horrible as it was to remember the feeling of Lybb inside him and as horrible as it was to realize he'd forced that feeling upon another creature of magic and broke his own moral code in doing so, he was, in some twisted, paradoxical way, still _happy. _

Morgana had failed, and just as she would never attack them again with magic, Merlin himself would ensure that no one ever recovered the knowledge that had nearly destroyed them all. In the end, there was still a huge mess to clean up, but their greatest enemy was defeated and no longer a threat, which that meant that, without their false queen, the renegades at Camelot would become disorganized. They would disband. They would lose their cause, and the kingdom—

Camelot would be allowed to grow, to prosper, and to overcome discrimination and fear without Morgana getting in the way of it. Peace would reign. Arthur could finally begin to remake the Pendragon name and banish the remaining shadows left behind by his father's Purge and his sister's rampages. The golden age was on the horizon, and Merlin could see the halo of light bordering the edge of the world expanding and brightening.

Even before seeing it in all its glory, he'd sensed the approach of those rays of light. He'd sensed it when Arthur repealed the magic ban. He'd sensed it when he'd been named Court Sorcerer. The moment that drug touched Morgana's lips, he'd sensed it.

After so long, Merlin could hardly dare to believe…

But it _had_ happened. All of it. And it was overwhelming. It was beautiful, and it was absolutely terrifying.

In order to regain some grasp on the here-and-now, Merlin took a deep breath and focused on the injuries that still needed his attention, on the people who needed him to be strong and who needed him to save his feelings for later, when he could be alone to think and come to terms with the consequences of what had been done this day. After unlatching his fingers from Arthur's arm, he made his way to Percival, whose face was pale and shining with cold sweat. Dropping down to his knees and placing a hand on the knight's mangled leg, Merlin incanted and rectified the damage to the best of his ability.

No one said a word while Percival thanked Merlin with a smile and tested the range of motion of his leg. He winced at the discomfort and pain that remained, and accepting the limitations of healing magic, the knight nodded his head toward Gwaine and added, "Any of us would have done it."

There was a question in his words, but Merlin, again, could not respond. Swallowing, he refrained from looking at Morgana and instead focused his attention on Lot. The Escetian king was exhausted in all manners of the word and half-delirious, which was made only more obvious by his dazed blinking and slurred comment of, "You burst my well. And your bloody lizard crushed my courtyard."

Unable to withhold an amused smile, Merlin mused, "Hm, it appears so. We won though, and we're all alive." When Lot merely stared at him, the warlock murmured, "Sleep now, Lot. The bloody lizard will be gone when you wake up." Before the stubborn king, who was no doubt just about to tell Merlin off for ordering him around, could say a word, the warlock reiterated,_ "Sleep_. We're free now."

As if by magic, the older king fell limp, and once Merlin was sure that there was nothing more that Lot needed, he ignored the inquiring looks of the knights and looked to Arthur.

His king had been in deep conversation with Kilgharrah, but they still managed to meet eyes. Arthur nodded once at him—a sign of his approval, his gratitude, and above all, his understanding—and that, Merlin felt, was what made it all worthwhile.

"Thank you, Merlin," Arthur said aloud. For a moment, pain, relief, and guilt overtook his calm expression, and the warlock was aware that that _thank you_ meant more than any of the others the king might have uttered to him in the past.

Because his kingdom was not only safe; his sister was alive. They were not only free of her; she was free of the dark magic she had allowed to corrupt her heart. Merlin made a decision that did not only tear him apart; he made a decision that defied Fate herself. He made a decision that proved that there was something _greater_ than Fate in the grand scheme of things. That greatness? Despite all presumptions that an individual must act one way or another in response to a given situation and despite what Fate might have wanted for Merlin and Morgana—the light and the dark, the hatred and the love—there was still a _choice_, and that choice was what separated humans from beasts and the easy from the difficult. That was when Fate faltered and when destinies were rewritten.

Arthur understood the gravity of the decision Merlin had made—more so than the knights did and ever would—because he, too, hadn't necessarily wanted death to be the answer, even if it was previously thought to have been the _only_ answer…

Above all, however, he understood because _he_ was the one who held Merlin when he broke.

_You're not alone_, Arthur's eyes said, and the relief Merlin felt upon recognizing the message was on the softer, kinder side of the double-edge.

The light, reassuring smile that Arthur had adopted was replaced by a serious frown. "Kilgharrah can take three passengers on his back. Lancelot, you have the most medical training and the most level head on your shoulders. We need you to stay here. Tend to Percival, Kay, and Lot—don't argue, Percival! You shouldn't be fighting, much less riding on the back of a dragon, with that leg!"

Suitably cowed, Percival deflated, and Arthur continued, addressing Lancelot, "They need you here with them, Lancelot, and even though Lot's people don't know what happened between their king and Kay, they know _something _happened to have caused Kilgharrah to appear here. Merlin? Is the physician someone you would trust with the truth?"

Merlin's eyebrows rose in acknowledgement, and staring at Lot for a moment, he said, "Yes. Lot trusts Nellie too."

Nodding, Arthur turned back to Lancelot. "She may know the truth. Everyone else…they must not know." His eyes flashed to Kay. "Not completely."

"I'll see to it, Arthur," Lancelot said. "I've got Percival to help me with truthful enough story for them."

"Excellent. Gwaine, you're with us."

The knight's uncharacteristically grim face brightened, and he whirled from Morgana, whom he had been glaring at, and beamed wickedly at Kilgharrah. However, his glee at being allowed to ride the dragon (for the dragon was adamant that no one but his Dragonlord sit astride his back) gave way to hesitation. "And Morgana?" he asked. "She must answer for her crimes, after all."

In that moment, Merlin had never felt more enraged at his friend, and he growled, "She has answered…and now she will never cease answering for the crimes she committed."

Merlin's voice lost its edge near the end of his outburst, and he lowered his eyes as the others stared at him, the man who had been the most harmed by the witch and the one who had sacrificed so much already to bring her to justice…

Ever the voice of reason, Percival said, "That won't prevent her from plotting and scheming."

"We can't know that."

Silence.

"What _are_ we going to do with her, then?" Lancelot asked as he wiped the sweat from his brow. "We can't just…leave her lying there."

"Sure we can. She's not going anywhere," Gwaine insisted between clenched teeth.

When Merlin winced at the tone of their voices, Arthur immediately sent a glare at them. "She will return with us," the king ordered coolly, "as she is my responsibility."

"_My _responsibility," the warlock corrected.

His feet were cumbersome blocks of lead as he moved across the room, and even before Arthur could think to refute, Merlin hovered over Morgana's body. The witch was not betraying any discomfort in unconsciousness, which offered him some solace, but her utter stillness was too much like that of a corpse for the warlock's liking. The blazing burn marring her face and the sharp angles of her gaunt, hollow cheekbones only made the illusion more real. Quaking, Merlin took a pinch of the energy stored within the philosopher's stone and, with a few gruff words and a heavy amount of guilt, tenderly sprinkled it upon her.

Allowing his hand to fall, Merlin watched as the blistered flesh began to peel and reveal healthy, pink skin underneath and as the hair he had accidentally shorn off began to grow back into long, luscious locks… (1)

"Why?"

The transformation was not yet complete when Merlin stood, and he turned to Arthur, who had followed his friend to Morgana's side, and said simply, "I've humiliated her enough."

Once he was satisfied that Morgana was healed and comfortable, Merlin made to move around Arthur, but before he could, the king's hand shot out to grasp his upper arm. Merlin stared at his friend's hand for a moment before looking away, and he only barely heard himself say, "Gwaine, go help Kilgharrah with the crowd. We need the courtyard clear when we take off, and we can't let them see what's happened here. Whatever it takes to get the stragglers out of there…threaten them if need be."

"But how will we keep them away after we…?"

"I'll take care of it," Merlin answered simply, only half-aware of what he was committing himself to.

"Be quick about it!" Arthur added.

After the knight nodded and left through the hole in the ceiling, Arthur gently squeezed Merlin's arm. "Merlin."

The warlock looked from his feet to Arthur, who was surveying him up and down with tumultuous eyes. "Are you hurt?"

"No," Merlin responded softly.

His gaze was piercing, and Merlin met it steadily, knowing that the king was searching for a lie—for a sign that he was, in fact, hiding an injury, as he was wont to do. This time, however, Merlin wasn't lying and hiding or pretending. Now was not the time to pretend he was strong enough. There was, after all, no _need _to pretend. He _was _strong enough. He—he had to be…

"I know it's hard," Arthur said softly. "I—I don't know whether I want to weep or scream or laugh or beat the living hell out of a training dummy, and that's _me_. You, on the other hand…Merlin, I—" The king swallowed, and suddenly, vulnerability entered his eyes, revealing everything that Arthur had been trying to hide. "Do you—Do you realize how afraid I was of _losing you_ tonight, you idiot? The Lybb, the battle…" The king stammered for words before sighing in frustration and simply deciding to tug Merlin into an embrace in place of words.

"I—I know," Merlin murmured, wrapping his arms around his king. "_I know_."

_I was so afraid. So afraid for you, Arthur._ _I almost wasn't strong enough_. _I almost fai—_

"—ailed you," Arthur was saying. "I almost failed you. I never felt so helpless in all my life."

"Me too," Merlin admitted, a leaden weight falling from his shoulders. "Me too. I'm so sorry."

They trembled in each other's arms, and Merlin was sure that Arthur, too, was trying to quell the nausea rolling in his stomach. Arthur, too, walked the line of the double-edge. Arthur, too, straddled the border of relief and horror, nightmare and reality, and just as Merlin needed Arthur, Arthur needed Merlin to reassure him that he could truly distinguish between the shadows of what could have been and the darkness of what _was_ because for awhile, the shadows and darkness had been so distorted, so blurred, that they were near indistinguishable. It was more than that, though. Far more than that. For, despite their faith in each other, each side of the coin had been forced to imagine life without his other half.

It was the one thing that neither Merlin nor Arthur would ever forgive Morgana for.

Though the warlock's lips formed countless words, not a single one of them was spoken aloud. It wasn't for lack of things to say, for he had _plenty _to say. No, the problem was that there was not a single word that he could imbue with enough meaning to express what he wanted to, what he _needed _to, but there would be time for that later. They had one more battle to fight, and afterwards, they would have all the time in the world. Eventually, when they began to draw away from each other, he found the few that did matter.

"_You_ _prat_."

A small smirk started to work its way onto Arthur's lips, and Merlin found himself smiling in response. He offered his hand, and without hesitation, the king grasped his forearm.

"You ready?" Merlin asked, jerking his head toward the others, who had respectfully left the two to talk in private. Gwaine, who was now seated upon the head of a _very _disgruntled dragon, had just been lowered back into the chambers and was waving to catch their attention.

Arthur's smirk became downright devious. "Let's get those bastards out of our kingdom."

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><p>(1) Inspired by a comment made by my friend JJuna on The Heart of Camelot<p>

AN: :') I love these two. I can't say when another chapter will be up, but you know I will do my best, as always. ^^ Thank you so much for reading and for sticking with me.

Oz out.


	28. Return

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: A very Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, and happy holidays to everyone! I had wanted this to be the last chapter, but instead... I decided to split the chapter into 2 smaller ones because you've been waiting long enough, and it's _Christmastime. _So, without further ado, here's my gift to you guys this holiday season.

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Return<strong>

Never again.

Never, _never _again.

How did they _do_ this? How did they do this time and time again and never speak a word about the truth of it? Because the truth—the truth wasn't all heroics and cleverness and skill, as Guinevere might have assumed from their stories. No, the truth was _frightening_.

Didn't _they_ ever feel so anxious that they felt sick to their stomachs? Didn't _they_ ever feel like they'd rather just stop their heartbeats altogether just to rid themselves of the _suspense_? Gwen didn't have the answers, but it did occur to her that her husband and friends might have grown _fond _of these feelings—addicted, even. She didn't doubt it, actually, and she decided that they were all far more insane than she would have ever believed.

Her dark humor did next to nothing to distract her from what was happening around her. With every branch that snapped, with every gust of wind that rustled the leaves, Gwen flinched violently, her heart rising to her throat. With every noise she heard or unnatural movement she sensed, she had to refrain from gasping. In fact, she had resorted to stuffing her mouth with one of her fists in order to keep herself from doing so. The other hand held a white-knuckled grip on the short sword she had taken from the Vaults, and it was so tight, she feared her hand would go numb.

After all, she couldn't be sure when one of those noises would become something _more _than just a noise, and she couldn't be sure that whatever enemy that came upon her wouldn't see or hear her either.

A steady mantra of _"protect Camelot; destroy the vessel"_ had been running through Gwen's mind from the very instant that she slipped that amulet on, and though her determination only increased when the magical shield finally dissolved, when a thick flock of wyverns and gargoyles descended upon Camelot, and when a wave of demons and men burst through the front gates, _she _could still see her body. Merlin had not necessarily told them of this particular flaw, and it made her confidence in the amulet more than a little shaky. She supposed that it was a good thing that she could still see herself, however, considering how embarrassing it would have been if she tripped over her own invisible limbs and impaled herself on the sword she carried.

Suspense made her morbid, it would seem. Morbid and hysterical.

Well, she felt she had a damn right to be as morbid and hysterical as she pleased. With carnivorous demons and magic-wielding monsters running about, how couldn't she be?

For all her attempts at making jests, she still trembled fit to fly apart. The fact that she felt and seemed visible didn't instill any confidence in whether or not _others_ could perceive her presence, and despite her decision to skirt around the bulk of the enemy force in order to sneak in from the back, there had already been a few stray spells, weakened by the distance traveled, that deflected near her. Once, a pair of deserters, their faces pale and eyes bloodshot, dashed through the brush directly in front of her, which elicited a squeak she hadn't been able to contain.

They hadn't heard her. They had kept running. Her chant had continued, and her fear of what lay around the bend never ceased.

_Protect Camelot; destroy the vessel._

There was a chill in the air. Gwen tried to convince herself that it was the lack of sunshine and the increasing gloom of the churning clouds, but when she decided she had walked far enough along the edges of Morgana's force and began to plunge towards the heart of her camp, it only grew colder and colder.

_Protect Camelot; destroy the vessel._

Her breath began to fog before her, and clenching her jaw shut, she removed her hand from her mouth to wrap it across her chest. The sword in her hand trembled with the force of her tremors, and her fingers were stiff with cold. Gooseflesh prickled painfully all over her body.

_Protect Camelot; destroy the vessel._

For there _had _to be a vessel. If it wasn't what she and Gaius saw in the book, it was something else. An anchor. _Whatever_. No natural force could have created this cold. It did not merely permeate skin and settle into the bones, where it might have lingered even after entering a room with a blazing hearth. No, this cold seeped further still into the recesses of the heart and mind, where every well-meaning person hid their dark secrets and insecurities. Gwen could not remember feeling this dreadfully cold, not even when the cruelest of winters hit the folk living in the Lower Town with such a vengeance that life was sucked from everyone and everything.

_Protect Camelot; destroy the vess—_

She inhaled sharply when she caught sight of the first of Morgana's outlying guards, and she couldn't help but instinctively maneuver herself behind a tree when it raised its ungainly head and flared its nostrils in her direction. The Crocotta, however, did not pause long; it had its nose to back to the ground almost as soon as Gwen made it behind the trunk, and it continued its zigzagging lope across its section of the perimeter. Back and forth, back and forth, it paced, slobber trailing from its overflowing jaws. Up close, the beasts were even more ugly…and even more dangerous than they appeared to be from the height of Camelot's walls.

Gwen had to shake her head to drive away the image of a young man being torn to shreds by those teeth. The memory of Arthur and Merlin's voices issuing from one of the mutts' mouths was harder to dispel. Worry for them gnawed at her like a dog at a bone, but she could not allow it to distract her.

_Protect Camelot; destroy the vessel._

After a few more passes, the Crocotta moved on, obviously continuing its stretch of the patrol. Rubbing her arms, Gwen took a deep breath and decided she had better make haste if she wished to avoid seeing the beast again as it completed its circuit. Merlin may have said nothing about the amulet masking scents, but since the beast's eyes had not so much as passed over her hiding spot when it had lifted its snout, it appeared that was very much the case. Emboldened, she stepped out into the open and made to pass the invisible boundary line.

_Protect Camelot; destroy the vessel._

She had no idea how she missed it—perhaps she was too focused on the Crocotta to see it…there. Just _standing_ there. It seemed to rise out of the ground just as she passed it, and upon seeing it shift to scratch its nose from the corner of her eye, Guinevere jerked so forcefully that she tripped and found herself sprawled in the grass. She was too shocked to so much as breathe, and for a split second, that shock overcame everything.

It was a creature of the likes of which she had never seen and she wished she would never see again. Grey-green mottled skin oozed with slime, and within its oversized hands, which hung from arms as thick as tree trunks, it held a massive spiked club that could easily break every bone in the human body with a single swing. Finger bones seemed to be the preferred ornament for the weapon's shaft, but the monster saved skulls, some of which belonged to beasts she could only imagine appearing in her worst nightmares, and femurs for the belt around its waist.

The most horrifying thing about its appearance, however, was not the belt or the club. It wasn't even the ram horns that curved from its temples or the fierce under-bite that supported the weight of its tusk-like fangs.

It was the single, unblinking, beetle-black eye that consumed the center of its forehead.

A troll? An ogre? A giant? Some unholy hybrid? Gwen did not know, and she had little time to ponder it. The moment she fell, the monster's big eye whipped to her, and the queen froze as it blinked stupidly at the spot where she lay before scanning the entire forest floor. Holding her breath, Gwen slowly, carefully began to shimmy backwards, away from the beast. It had seen her, she was _certain_. For a split second…

It suddenly opened its mouth and roared, casting rancid spit into the air. Instinctively, Gwen scrambled to her feet and dove to the side as the spiked club crashed into the ground. The beast would have missed her by meters even if she hadn't moved from where she fell.

"Itsy bitsy female," it rumbled mockingly, its speech laborious. Gwen did not look back as it spoke, and now sprinting, she continued her chant to herself. "Comes out, comes out wherever yous aaaaaare," she heard it yell behind her. "Juk sees yous. Juk not seeings things. Juk knows yous there, even if yous likes playings vanishyyy."

_Gods,_ _what exactly has Morgana _done_? What has she unleashed?_ she asked herself as she heard several earth-shattering _thuds_ from behind her. Juk—lovely name, that—was obviously flailing his club around in a vain attempt to crush the vanishing intruder he thought he had seen. From the cry of victory she heard moments later, she assumed the thing hit _something_.

That was relieving. Maybe she'd be able—

Several bodies smashed through the forest, and when she shot a glance over her shoulder, she saw the hindquarters of several Crocotta, which were headed the direction of the ogre she left behind. When a couple of sorcerers, right on the mutts' heels, emerged, she whipped her head back around and pushed herself harder so that she could put some more distance between herself and the enemy.

_They just might consider it a false alarm_, she tried to console herself. _Maybe. _No doubt there were some—if not all—who felt superior to that creature, and perhaps those sorcerers would curl their lips in disgust and scorn and agree amongst themselves that the ogre's claims were nothing more than a waste of their time.

Well, whatever happened, what was done was done. She could only go forward….and not make the same mistake again.

_Protect Camelot; destroy the vessel._

Once their upraised voices were far behind her, Gwen slowed to a walk, and as she regained control over her breathing, her eyes carefully scanned the forest in every direction. She followed the cold, for it only became more and more unbearable the closer to the heart of the camp she got.

With every step she took, the more demons she saw. It was surprising how many had lingered behind when Camelot's shield fell, but most of those she saw were dark little sprites and imps that fluttered overhead and scampered through tree branches like squirrels. She also saw more of those towering brutes and Crocotta, along with the odd wyvern and unnamable being. Rather than making mischief like the imps or wandering haphazardly like the silent wraiths and peculiar little elves with their forked tails and large ears (1), the larger and significantly more dangerous creatures had obviously been chosen to hold the camp.

For all their differences, what each of the demons had in common was the undeniable fact that they did _not _belong here. They might have at one point, she admitted, for their legends had to have originated from somewhere, but their place now resided in the shadow-realm, that which paralleled the mortal world.

_It controls demons… Summons them from both the shadow-realm as well as calls them from their homes on the mortal plane, _she remembered Gaius saying.

With the amount and variety of beasts and creatures she saw, the signs were truly undeniable now, and Gwen couldn't help but smile in bitter satisfaction. She knew Morgana too well, she realized. For all her intelligence, her previous mistress was foolish as a child whenever it came to her stubborn pride. Her confidence in her plan, her wholehearted belief that she would win, had made her bring the vessel here instead of hiding it away, just as Gwen had predicted. As she passed a Crocotta munching on one of those munchkin elves, she realized that it did not surprise her in the least that Morgana seemed to have bitten off more than she could chew.

The queen happened to overhear as much, too, from two of the rogue Druids standing guard with that particular Crocotta.

"I didn't sign up for this," the female said to her companion as she eyed the mutt warily. "If I had known…"

"Morgana'd have yer head if she heard ya talkin' like that," the male said gruffly, shifting his enchanted spear.

"Well, I'd rather let _her_ have my head than be at the mercy of these…_things _she's Summoned," she snapped, jerking her chin. "I think I saw the Greek's legendary and long-since-extinct _chimera _wandering the forest, Rudden. It isn't right. This is some of the blackest of magic."

Rudden snorted mockingly. "As if ya hadn't touched the Dark side before, sweetlin'."

"I won't deny it." She folded her arms. "But at least I knew what I was doing when I did it. At least I knew what I was getting into. This—this is out of control…and too much, even for me. The Earth's magic screams in agony. Don't you feel it? The cold seeping from the Others' realm?"

Gwen certainly felt it, but she did linger to hear Rudden's answer. In this, she needn't anyone's opinions but her own: that vessel _needed _to be found and destroyed.

_Protect Camelot_;_ destroy the vessel._

After passing yet another group of guards, the pattern of their patrols was almost too easy to predict, despite the layers upon layers of overlapping patrol-zones, and Gwen soon began avoiding them all.

Until she could avoid them no longer.

She thought she knew this forest well—well enough to have a vague idea of where she was at any given time—but somehow, someway, she found herself in the middle of the Valley of Fallen Kings, where she stood face-to-face with the last defense.

They formed a half-circle, their backs to small, crumbling cliff-face, where thick roots plunged in and out of the earth and where their small, fiber-like companions clumped together like the bristles of a broom. Crocotta growled and whined where they paced while others worried at their cruel weapons and grunted at each other. The humans, on the other hand, looked nothing but ill. Their faces were pale as freshly laundered linen sheets, and despite the restlessness of their supernatural companions, they stood as still as stone, eyes glazed and jaws clenched tight.

It would have unnerved her if she hadn't been so busy searching for what it was that they were guarding. With the overhanging wall of rock, dirt, and roots behind them, it appeared as though they were guarding nothing at all, after all. Even looking up the cliff-face, Gwen could see nothing beyond the rise and swell of the land and foliage all around.

Her heart dropped. _Could this be a dead-end? A trap? _No, no, it couldn't be. The cold suggested otherwise. The white-faced statues of men said otherwise.

There was something _here_. Gwen did not need to have magic to feel its ominous presence. Every instinct screamed at her. _Leave. Leave _now_, _they demanded._ Leave. _Her muscles ached to obey, but she would not be cowed.

Camelot was under attack. Her _home _was being invaded. Her brother, friends, and soldiers were fighting, her people were in danger, and her husband and best friend were in gods knew what kind of trouble. Morgana was completely mad, and demons were pouring from their world into this one.

And this world was falling apart at the seams. Everyone had his or her role in working to stitch it back together, and this—this was hers.

_Protect Camelot_;_ destroy the vessel._

_But where?_ she wanted to scream. _Where is it?_

The back of her head and neck prickled uncomfortably, and instead of throwing her gaze around to see what it was that was _watching her_, she clung to logic. There was nothing behind her. No one could see, hear, or smell her, not so long as she remembered what she was fighting for.

_Protect Camelot; destroy the vessel._

_It _has_ to be up there_, Gwen thought, her eyes narrowing as she stared at the top of the wall of rock, dirt, and roots.

In this part of the Valley, the moss hung from trees like thick beards, accentuating their ancient and gnarled limbs, and their branches intertwined with each other. They had grown together, lived together, and reached for the sun together, and throughout the centuries, one tree became just as much its neighbor as it was its own being. Though Gwen would normally be loath to disturb something so old and formidably beautiful, she chose a tree whose branches extended overhead, slipped her sword into her belt, and began to climb.

From the treetops, she would be able to see what lie in wait for her.

She didn't know what she expected. Perhaps she expected more guards. Perhaps she expected a new and repulsive monster, something that would put Crocotta, ogres, trolls, and chimeras to shame. Perhaps she expected to see Morgana herself or even the person she left in charge in her absence (for it did occur to Gwen that it was odd that, for all the organization of the camp, she had not seen hide or hair of a _leader_ just yet).

She wasn't at all prepared for what she saw.

The vessel was exactly as it was in the book. Crafted in the style of a Greek amphora, its twisting double-handles were black lead, as was the belly of the vase itself, which was inscribed with runes whose evil could be felt in the frigid chill of the air. From its belly spewed dark matter, and flickering with shocks of emerald, it hung like a billowing curtain of smoke and shadows above the lip of the vase.

The curtain, however, was parted, and the tear in reality left a gaping hole that was even darker, blacker, and colder than the shadows that comprised the curtains (2). Within…

Gwen now knew why the vessel itself stood alone on this lonely pile of dirt and rock and why the guards only stood at the base of it. Bile threatened to rise in her throat.

She had never once seen them herself, but she would recognize those eyes, those dreadful, soul-devouring eyes, anywhere.

They were as much shadow as the curtain was, but their hazy forms emerged and dove through the shadows like a sea serpent would the sea's waves. Even as their bodies dove once again into the undulating mass of darkness, the eyes lingered. The eyes were always there, red and burning…

And every single pair of them swung to her the instant she settled on her tree branch and peered through the leaves.

The Gvarath shades hissed at her.

The queen's mind completely stopped, and retreating behind the leaves and squeezing her eyes shut out of reflex, she clutched at her chest and flinched at the sound of their echoing hisses…

Echoes! _Echoes._ She grappled with this tiny observation and realized…she was still _there. _

"They're echoes," she whispered to herself, releasing a giddy laugh in her relief. For that is all that they _were_: imprints, reanimated memories… She didn't know what they were, but they were not _whole. _They would have attacked otherwise. They had no physical form, not like Arthur had described to her…

But that did not mean that they would not hurt her, and that did not mean that they couldn't take her _aura _just as easily as the real one had taken the knights'. Maybe these would do worse and suck her into the shadow-realm, trapping her there. How was she to know the powers and the limits of something as twisted as these half-beings?

She could still feel hungry eyes on her, even through the branches that obscured her from view, and unintentionally holding her breath and gathering her courage, she moved a branch out of the way and saw that, despite their hissing and stalking, they never broke free of the curtain in which they were contained.

Guinevere released another hysterical bark of laughter, but she soon sobered and felt her stomach plummet to the base of the tree she sat in.

_What _has _Morgana unleashed? _she asked herself again. _What has she _done?

The numbness, anger, and regret she felt whenever she thought of Morgana's misdeeds was now consumed with utter repulsion, but even that was short-lived. Panic and dread filled her as she fingered the sword at her hip. It looked a sad specimen of a weapon now. It would do _nothing _against this magic.

What the hell had she been thinking? How could she underestimate Morgana like this? More to the point: how the _hell _was she going to destroy the vessel now?

Echoing shrieks jolted her into awareness, and she flung her eyes to the irritated shades, which danced with renewed fury. The curtain of shadows and smoke was fluttering…no, not fluttering. It was no longer pitch black, and where emerald once flashed like lightning through thunderclouds, the color _melted _into the shadows, which began to pour from the vase in a sickening, dense, sludge-like consistency. The gaping hole between the worlds seemed to fold inward on itself, sucking the sludge up as it went…

And suddenly, something _snapped_, and as the consumed sludge-shadows were hastily regurgitated, the dimming Gvarath eyes burned bright again, and their gurgling giggles were all that broke through the unnerving and unnatural silence and stillness that fell over the forest.

Even the sounds of battle from Camelot, which had always been just within Gwen's range of hearing, had ceased, and the gaping tear—it looked wider than ever.

~…~

It wasn't until they were high above Livandir that Merlin noticed.

"Kilgharrah, you're injured."

Since Merlin had taken over the spot right nearest the dragon's head, both Arthur and Gwaine had to cautiously lean around the Dragonlord to see the bleeding claw marks that adorned the dragon's hide.

Kilgharrah's golden eye shifted upwards so that he could look at Merlin as he spoke. "As are you."

"I don't matter right now," Merlin said. "What happened?"

"I don't want to hear that ever again, Merlin," Kilgharrah snapped. His golden eyes slid closed, and after a moment, he spoke again, his tone far gentler than Merlin could ever remember it being. "Young warlock, I could not sense you."

The implications in the dragon's words effectively silenced Merlin, and touched by the dragon's uncharacteristic display of open affection, he murmured, "I'm sorry that I scared you."

"You _always _scare me," the dragon scoffed, and suddenly, they were no longer rising. Kilgharrah readjusted the angle of his wings, and they were off, flying south toward Camelot at a speed that Merlin would not have thought possible for a dragon the size of Kilgharrah. Behind him, Gwaine yelped a laugh at the abrupt change. Arthur, who would never admit he was afraid of heights, on the other hand, was as stiff as a board and murmured curses and prayers under his breath, while Morgana, hanging from Kilgharrah's claws, was still unconscious and in no position to react to the fact she was flying miles above the ground.

"It is I who should apologize," Kilgharrah continued. "I would have been able to get to you sooner, had it not been for the witch."

"What?" Arthur barked, his attention effectively diverted from the height at which they were flying.

The king's response spurred Kilgharrah on, and his speed increased. "This is bigger than anything I could have anticipated. The army at Camelot…it is not just one of men. It is of demons."

"Demons," Merlin repeated slowly, wearily. Kay had mentioned in those awful dungeons that Morgana had been the one who sent the Crocotta, which were originally beasts of the shadow-realm, after them. At the time, he had thought that maybe he was mistaken. Crocotta were not known to be easy creatures to Summon, and since there had been matters more pressing at the time of this revelation, Merlin hadn't thought twice about it. "That is Dark magic. Even if she did Summon some, there is no way that she could maintain command over more than a few. A whole army? Impossible."

"Not so. With the right anchor, a bit of corrupt magic, and a proper bridge to the shadow-realm…"

"Of course," Merlin muttered harshly, not even wanting to listen to the rest of the explanation. He had heard enough, and suddenly, he was even more aware of his exhaustion than before. For some reason, that made him angry—angr_ier_, anyway. "Of. Bloody. Course. Did she just happen to find all of these ancient secrets from the Dark Times in a package somewhere? Morgause could not have known this"

"I cannot say, but at the moment, all that matters is that she has Summoned an army of them and that they were in her command. She predicted my involvement and sent a whole flock of her slaves to delay me. They were enough of a problem that I was almost too late."

"You were right on time, Kilgharrah," Merlin assured. "Thank you."

Even when Gwaine and Arthur offered their gratitude, the dragon did not look convinced, but he offered no protest when the warlock leaned forward to pat his head soothingly.

_I am glad you are alright, young one, _Kilgharrah murmured into his mind. The dragon's relief was so strong that Merlin could almost taste it. _I am sorely tempted to tear the witch to pieces right now for what she has done._

_I was too, _Merlin admitted, _but this is no merciful fate I sentenced her to._

_There is no punishment worthy for her, in my eyes, but I am proud of you for choosing as you did. _

Once again touched by the dragon's forwardness, the Dragonlord said warmly, _Thank you, 'Gharrah_.

_That is the second time you addressed me as such, _Kilgharrah mused. His words created a moment of déjà vu for Merlin, and his lips quirked into a smile. _Normally, I am not one for such endearments—these…nicknames—but— _

"Merlin? Kilgharrah?" Arthur's voice recalled them from their private conversation. He sounded in sore need of a distraction. "One of you—doesn't matter who because I'm sure you both know—what happens to her army now that her magic is gone?"

"That's right," Gwaine agreed. "With her magic gone, surely the connection between her and the army is gone as well?"

"The connection is gone; that much is true, Sir Gwaine," Kilgharrah responded, withdrawing his mind from Merlin's. They would no doubt speak later, after their last trials were faced. "But the vessel with which she created the link between this world and the shadow-realm is still active. Because of this, the demons may have no longer have a commander, but they now run amok in Camelot's streets and have free reign to cross between worlds."

"Chaos," Arthur and Merlin murmured simultaneously.

There was no hesitation. As he exchanged determined glances with his king and friend, Merlin asked, "How quickly can you get us to Camelot?"

Kilgharrah snorted, and the smoke that was released from his nostrils stung Merlin's eyes. "A lot faster than I took to get to Livandir. Hold on tight; I wouldn't want to have to turn back to catch you if you fall."

* * *

><p>(1) I was totally thinking of a Miniblin from Legend of Zelda here. Those little buggers are so freaking annoying, let me tell you.<p>

(2) Inspired by 4x01 ;)

AN: The next chapter is currently less than 500 words, but since I'm on break, I'm really going to work my tail off to wrap this fic up by the time next semester starts. I wish you guys the best this upcoming New Year. Hopefully you'll be hearing from me again before then!

Before I head off, I want to promote a piece of fanfiction I'm currently beta'ing called **"A Long Way From Home" by Teej**. It has a great amount of bromance, Merlin-Gaius bonding, and an enticingly mysterious OC. It could have been an episode from the show itself. If you're interested, Teej has posted the first few chapters on The Heart of Camelot and will be posting on this site soon, so keep an eye out!

Be sure to check out **carinims01's "Remember Me,"** too, if you haven't already. That one isn't one you want to miss out on.

Any mistakes are my own.

Oz out


	29. Chaos

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: Guys, I present to you the final chapter of Heart of Gold. My happiness right now is boundless. I will say nothing more but that this is perhaps the most fitting chapter title ever.

Enjoy the chaos:

* * *

><p><strong>Chaos<strong>

The silence did not break. It _shattered_.

At first, Gwen couldn't even say what happened. The sludge-shadows that now bubbled and oozed from the lip of the vase made the Gvarath appear less like ghosts and more…real. Their hisses and gurgling and giggling and wretched, hoarse whispers made her entire body seize up in fear because, before, their voices seemed to echo as though she and the monsters stood at opposite ends of a long tunnel. Now, they were so clear, so loud, it was as though she and they stood side-by-side within the same high-ceilinged cavern. Those red eyes blazed as brightly as ever as they danced and dove within that filthy, thick curtain. Sometimes, they passed from the sludge and back through the tear between worlds, and she could _see _them, pitch black and faceless, prowling.

They were not the only things she saw in that infinite world of blackness. She saw dragons, nearly three times the size of Kilgharrah, covered in lethal spines that arched and spiraled into mighty crowns at the top of their heads. These dragon-beings, too, had no faces, and again and again, in different forms and in different ways, in the dizzying swirl of mist, shadow, and darkness, she saw them fight with each other, with the Gvarath, and with everything else: wolves that walked on two legs, serpents with multiple heads, dark elves, ogres and trolls (she could tell the difference now), wraiths and banshees, animal-hybrids, and winged women-vultures…

There were still more, and their images and forms blurred and swarmed within the tear. Despite the glinting of their eyes and their frenzied movements, there was nothing that drew Gwen's eye more than the spaces in between, the spaces so black they swallowed everything. _Everything…_

She was falling. She didn't even realize she was falling from the tree until her lower back smacked into lower tree branch, flipping her over in midair. Crying out in pain, Gwen flailed instinctively for something, _anything, _to grab hold of. Branches tore at her hands, and they soon began to burn when she made multiple attempts to hang on to some of the thicker branches, only to have them ripped from her hands when the speed of her descent overcame the strength of her grip.

It wasn't too far of a fall. In fact, it was so short that Gwen forgot to truly scream. If she hadn't hit so many branches on the way down and if she hadn't been so terrified, she might have felt a little more relieved when she hit the ground. Unfortunately, landing wasn't exactly pleasant enough for her to experience any amount of relief. The force knocked the breath from her, and her head snapped back, causing stars to dance in her vision.

Noise rushed over her. Loud and distorted, it roared like a coursing river, and blinking her eyes clear, Gwen painfully attempted to roll over into a kneeling position. She was not given much chance to recuperate or so much as catch her breath, not when a large _something _thudded to the ground directly to her right. Instinctively, she jolted up and yanked the sword from her belt. Still disoriented and unbalanced, however, the weapon slipped from her raw and stiff fingers, and she toppled over nearly as soon as she regained her feet, discovering that grass was actually rather cool and soothing underneath one's scratched chee—

_Oh. _

Suddenly alert and aware, Gwen shrieked and scrambled up again, scooping her sword up in the process. It turns out that the sword was not needed. Someone else had already taken care of it. The offending object—the atrocious scowl of a troll—seemed to have already had its head severed from its shoulders.

That's when she finally decided to look up.

Chaos.

Monsters appeared to have been drawn to the vessel like moths to a flame. Panicking sorcerers flung spells left and right as Crocotta leapt with teeth bared at everyone and everything, even their own kind. She saw wyvern and munchkin elves nibbling on the entrails of the now-dead headless troll and greedy gargoyles and cockatrices fighting over carcasses and ripping out the throats of men. Ogres swung their clubs, knocking assailants into tomorrow and singing childish tunes and rhymes. Ear-piercing shrieks resounded from the wraiths that swooped from above.

Many had fled, but more had entered the Valley, leaving nothing but raised tempers and monster species that obviously did not normally play nicely with each other. Those that weren't fighting lounged around from a safe distance, chewing on their own tails and giggling at all that was happening around them…

And above? The billowing sludge-shadows undulated and seeped further and further into the air, and tendrils that undoubtedly connected to the vase arched like castle buttresses overhead. Some of the demons screeched and hollered victoriously upon seeing it, but the humans looked upon it with just as much fear as Gwen did because even from that distance, they could feel the eyes of those on the Other side watching them.

All it had taken was a _second_ for her world to collapse even more than it already had. It took yet another second to realize that her world would soon end if she didn't _move_.

The only warning she had was a shrill whistling through the air, but move she did. The projectiles sank into the wood she had recently been pressed against, and as her heart rose to her throat, she whipped her gaze around in time to see an orange-eyed lizard, bristling with striped spines, hiss and make a running leap for her.

The sword in her hand almost acted of its own accord, and the slice she delivered to the underside of the beast's belly as she ducked into cover effectively prevented it from sinking its claws into her. It collapsed to the ground, blue blood seeping from the wound she had given it.

In that moment, she couldn't have been more grateful that her father, the blacksmith, had insisted that she learn how to wield a sword correctly.

When a jet of purple light flew over her shoulder, she was spurred into action again, and ducking automatically, she twirled around to see that a Crocotta that had been sneaking up behind her and had been pummeled _into_ the ground by the spell. Her savior, having sought the same spot for cover, stood meters away, and the woman's eyes widened upon recognizing the queen. "Not—not exactly a great place to be right now, Pendragon!"

For a moment, Gwen blinked in astonishment. The use of Arthur's—her married surname was still new enough to her to catch her off guard, but more importantly… This was one of Morgana's recruits? Protecting her? "You—"

_Gods, _Gwen suddenly realized, _they _see_ me._

Her fingers scrabbled for her neck. All that greeted her touch was the smooth skin of her neck and the cold metal scales of her tunic. The amulet that had hidden her presence was gone, most likely lost when she fell from the tree, and now she stood exposed… in the middle of a war zone.

Hazel eyes scanned her carefully. "You've seen into the abyss," the sorceress said. There was some strange emotion in her voice that Gwen could not comprehend.

"What—?"

Her companion shot another spear of light at the Crocotta, which was growling from where she had trapped half of its body in the ground. It clipped the mutt across the snout, which flopped disgustingly to the ground and was soon followed by its massive head. "Might want to make use of that sword, My Lady," the sorceress said. "Morgana appears to have lost control, and we might as well do our damn best to get out alive, even if that means—NO!"

The woman had caught sight of one of her fellow sorcerers in a tight spot and did not finish her sentence before dashing out of their shared hiding spot to help.

_Well, _Queen Guinevere thought numbly. Fear and adrenaline coursed through her, and unsure of what else she could do, she sent a quick prayer to whatever gods were listening and turned the sword over in her hand. _Protect Camelot; destroy the vessel._

~…~

If anyone ever asked, Arthur had the _best _time riding the dragon. Truly. He could see the whole world from up on Kilgharrah's back. He could feel the thrill of sitting miles above the ground, the thrill of wind rushing past his body. It was _all_ very exhilarating. Every dip and rise of Kilgharrah's wings was the most exhilarating of all because of course it felt like he was going to fall off with every movement, and who didn't love that?

Shame it was all a lie.

It wasn't that Arthur was afraid. With Gwaine behind him and Merlin in front of him, what did he have to fear? They wouldn't let him fall. Even if they did somehow accidentally neglect to keep him from tumbling from Kilgharrah's back, the dragon would undoubtedly drop Morgana from his talons in order to catch him.

This logic did nothing to quell his…_discomfort_ with the unnatural height they were at, and it most certainly did not do a single thing to make the damn nausea go away.

At one point, he had tried to close his eyes and focus on something else, but since that made him feel like he was out of control—and he _had _to be in control of his body and balance at _all _times right now—that solution did not last very long.

At risk of getting sick all over the back of Merlin's head, he had tried to make conversation, but that had failed when Kilgharrah told him what exactly his dear sister had unleashed upon his city.

Now, he almost wished that the nausea he felt were merely caused by Kilgharrah's flight. The nausea caused by worry and dread was _far _worse. He had thought he exhausted the extent of his worry back in those godforsaken dungeons, but he realized now that that was foolish.

He would never cease worrying about Guinevere or about his people, and right now—right now the king was in sore need of _seeing _Camelot. He needed to see it, to see his knights and men, to see his wife, because even though it didn't sound like things were alright (an awful, awful understatement), he needed to ensure that they _would _be…and Gwen—Guinevere had to be safe. She had to be.

Even though the horrors that awaited him at Camelot were worrying enough, that was not all he had to worry about.

If he were honest with himself, though, Merlin _always _worried him, and right now, Arthur almost wanted to ask Kilgharrah that he kidnap the warlock to keep him away from more fighting. Said young man was grey-faced and shivering, his lips drawn tightly. Exhaustion highlighted his features perhaps even more than the smears of dried, cracking blood and soot did, and sometimes he swayed in place, scaring the king to death nearly half a dozen times. Whenever Merlin swayed and Arthur leaned over ever so slightly to ensure he was alright, the warlock's eyes, seemingly fixated upon some small point far, far into the distance, were glazed over.

One particular incident, in which the warlock nearly went limp before him, had Arthur automatically reaching out to support Merlin's body. "Merlin…"

"Ge'off," he said sleepily.

Incredulously, Arthur released his friend and asked, "Did you just fall _asleep_? On the back of a _dragon_?"

"No," Merlin lied. When he saw the stern and pointed look Arthur was giving him, he tacked on, "I'm fine, Arthur."  
>"Don't seem fine, mate," Gwaine piped up from behind.<p>

Kilgharrah rumbled something under his breath, but it was indistinguishable to Arthur's ears. Judging by Merlin's wince, he understood perfectly. "I'm fine, truly," he insisted.

Arthur's eyes skipped over his friend's haggard appearance. He must have been far more exhausted than Arthur had previously thought to accidentally allow himself to slip into unconsciousness, even if for second. "Merlin," he attempted, "Maybe it'd be best if—"

"Don't finish that sentence," the warlock warned. "You know you don't mean it, and I won't hear it. I'm fighting."

"For once, the Pendragon and I agree, young warlock," the dragon sighed. "However, you're going to need some magic on your side in order to close the tear between the realms."

"I'm _fighting,_" Merlin repeated obstinately and smugly, looking quite like a child who had gotten his way.

"I just don't want you getting hurt because you're half-asleep on the battlefield!" Arthur argued.

"And _I__'m_ just resting," Merlin protested. "Not sleeping. Taking the time to actually restore my energy from the stone without yanking so forcefu—"

"What the _hell_," Gwaine interrupted, "is that?"

_That_ happened to be a cloud of blackness in the distance that shifted and spread through the air like thick smoke, forming a funnel right before their eyes. Upon seeing it, Merlin, suddenly sitting bolt upright, cursed and shuddered, a low growl resounding deep in his throat.

"_That__'__s_ no forest fire," the king muttered, shivering at the growing chill in the air. "No tornado either."

"No," Merlin said slowly, dangerously, as they approached the spiraling funnel cloud of darkness. "That's where we're headed."

"The Valley of the Fallen Kings," Kilgharrah added. "The vessel is using the magic of the place now that the witch's powers are no longer curbing it."

"How the hell did this happen?" Gwaine asked suddenly. Arthur could hear his teeth chattering even above the noise of the wailing winds. "One person goes mad, and the entire world is in jeopardy! If it was so easy to destroy the world with this thing, why the hell didn't some psychopath do this before?"

"No one would be this _stupid_," Kilgharrah explained. "Dark magic is a tricky force, Sir Gwaine. It can be fragile when tampered with and chaotic when one's grip slips. The people who forged this object—even if they never should have forged it in the first place—would have guarded it most jealously from their enemies and would have known full well how to handle it responsibly." He snorted bitterly. "The witch?"

Nothing more needed to be said, and Arthur, whose nausea was all but forgotten when a pit of dread settled into his stomach, watched as the storm morphed around them. He could see wyvern now, flying haphazardly and wrestling with each other in midair, but free of Morgana's feeble control, they had the sense to scatter upon sensing the approach of their fearsome cousin. Otherwise, the skies were relatively clear but for the looming curtain before them.

He saw the eyes before anyone else did.

"Merlin," Arthur whispered, horror lacing his tone.

Somehow the warlock heard him, and he jumped, obviously startled from either a reverie or another silent conversation with the dragon (Arthur had been learning to read the signs). After shooting a glance over his shoulder and following the king's gaze, his eyes widened, and he murmured, "Those—those...they can't be…"

"_No," _Kilgharrah snarled."They are false. Memories, echoes, nothing more but wisps of images of times long past, when demons and men walked within the same realm. The Gvarath people walked that line between men and demons, so their shades appear here, where that line has been drawn again. Nothing you see in the shadows can hurt you… unless you cross too far over that line and look too far into the abyss."

The words themselves only added to the chill in the air, and a sense of doom lingered. "What happens then?" Arthur dared to ask, eyeing the shadows warily.

"You might find yourself unable to escape them once they have a reason to claim you as theirs."

~…~

Gwen didn't know how many she had had a hand in defeating. It seemed that the moment one was down, another took its place, so she did not count.

It was a haze for her. At one point, she was sure she stood back-to-back with at least three other sorcerers and fought with them, and at another, she was tricking an ogre into running headlong into a tree. She might have noticed the sludge-shadows still continued to creep skyward, creating walls that entrapped her and all the demons within the Valley, but she certainly didn't keep track of how long it took.

She had enough to worry about with the monsters that seemed to take a liking to her.

Later, she would be so grateful that she'd lose all strength in her legs and sink to the floor, for, if those monsters hadn't been so keen, she might have been dragged away long ago by the seduction of the evil Other magic that had taken root.

Now, however, she was terrified enough by their obvious attention to her to fight without tiring. She wasn't afraid of death. No, not at their hands. That might mostly be because the demons were not trying to kill her. No, odd things were happening, and _that _was whatterrified her. These instances, she did count.

Once, when she had slipped on some wet leaves and fell, a Crocotta had taken her leg in its mouth. No sooner had Guinevere remembered the wounds in the infirmary and started hyperventilating than had a sorcerer killed it, allowing her to escape unscathed. The mutt had not broken her skin with its teeth, even though—even though it had been _tugging_.

Another time, an ogre recited cryptic and queer rhymes as it tried to trap her in a corner. She easily ducked between its legs and stabbed upward as she went, only to hear it growl, "Lady in blue—" she was covered in blood of all colors, but the blue blood from the spiny lizard that nearly took her head off was most apparent "—they will have you."

There were other times, seven in total, that had sent haunting shivers down her spine, but each time, she was not harmed. Each of those seven times, more of the sorcerers, who had all been driven to the Valley from their patrol zones, unmistakably _joined_ her.

They had all been fighting the same enemy from the beginning, but now—now instead of fighting in the style of every-man-for-himself, they worked as a _team_, united by one thing.

"Why are you doing this for me?" the queen had asked the sorceress that had rather amusingly trapped one of the Crocotta into the ground, the one with hazel eyes and blonde hair.

Elaine, as she had brusquely called herself the last time they found each other protecting the other's back, answered, "You are brave, Pendragon. I see that now. You do not deserve the fate that awaits you."

Gwen had been confused. "I'm not sure I—"

Once again, the sorceress responded, "You looked into the abyss."

This time, the response left Guinevere cold.

~…~

It was horrid. It was absolutely horrid, and it was like losing his magic all over again, being so near this abomination. The antithesis of his golden magic spawned deep within that curtain, and it clouded his senses, leaving him feeling even more ill and disoriented than he already did due to exhaustion. This world's magic—the Earth herself—screamed and screamed and _screamed_, begging to be released from its torturous presence_. _

Arthur couldn't know that it had this effect on him. Not after—not after what had happened with the drug. He wasn't going to burden the king with any more worry because there was plenty enough of that going around.

Despite Kilgharrah's assurances that the Gvarath were nothing to worry about, those eyes unnerved them all, especially the closer and closer they got to the edge of the storm. Even so, he refused to submit to their predatory games. As with the glare of a basilisk, if he were to stare too long, to lose himself in their terror-inducing tricks, he would ensure his ultimate demise.

Instead, he made sure that Arthur and Gwaine, too, kept their minds from the demons dancing in the curtain and knew what would happen when they finally breached the wall of darkness.

Because they were close now, only wing-beats away.

"We're only going to have a small window of opportunity once we break through."

_Thwump, thwump..._

"From the size of this thing, we're assuming that the whole of the Valley—or at least a good portion of it—has become the eye of the storm."

_Thwump, thwump..._

"There's no telling what is happening in there, but the vessel...Logically, that should be at the very center."

_A little closer..._

"Do we know how to destroy it?" Arthur shouted. "To stop all of this?"

Merlin took a moment to shoot a slightly guilty, but determined, look over his shoulder in response to his question.

"Well," Arthur quipped sarcastically, "I guess that'll be the fun part."

_Breathe..._

"Ready?" Merlin asked, gathering his magic. Within his palm, a tiny spark ignited, and a miniscule ball of light flickered into being.

"And what if we said we weren't?"

"Too bad," Kilgharrah rumbled. Extending his head, the dragon roared and released a continuous jet of flame. The fire hit the black cloud with a sizzling shriek, and for a moment, Merlin thought that the heat alone would disintegrate the stuff and allow them access to the eye of the storm.

Of course it wasn't that easy.

The flames, building and building, began to arch overhead. The false demons in the veil laughed as the dark magic repulsed Kilgharrah's attack, and even though heat seared at his face, Merlin could not look away as the tidal wave of flames threatened to crash upon them.

"Any time now, Merlin!" Arthur ordered, poking him in the back.

"Hold on!" was all he could say in response. He cupped the globe, now the size of an apple, in both hands, compressing the energy within, and with a flash of his eyes, he sent it sailing into the heart of the towering wall of fire. It zipped through the air like a shooting star, nearly too fast for the eye to follow, and upon impact, an explosive _boom _shook the air as the flames collapsed inward on themselves. It was as though a whirlpool opened, sucking everything into its swirling depths and giving them the briefest glimpse of a chance...

"Go now!" Merlin shouted, but Kilgharrah had already pinned his wings to his sides and was speeding though the tunnel of flames and shadows open to them. Raising his hands over his head, the warlock incanted, "Áwere!" (1) The flames washed over the shield he had erected, and they dove down, narrowly missing the mouth of the entrance closing and swallowing them whole.

~…~

The explosion that erupted above their heads made the ground tremble to such a degree that several people, Guinevere included, stumbled and nearly fell. It seemed that every eye swung upward in order to see a huge jet of fire streaming in through a breach in the wall of shadows. The tendrils that had formed a spider-web of support for the massive walls snapped as the fire flooded through the funnel, and before fire completely obscured her view of the sky, she saw Kilgharrah dive.

_Kilgharrah…_ A choked sob erupted from her throat before she could stop it, and in the same moment, a broad smile spread across her face. If Kilgharrah was here, that meant that Arthur and Merlin were _alright_—as alright as they could be given the circumstances, anyway.

_Thank gods. They were alright._

Looking up, even for that brief second, cost her. She allowed her guard to slip, and in doing so, she did not realize that something had crept up on her until Elaine cried out a delayed warning and a thick hand wrapped around her ankle.

Gwen's world was upended, and now dangling by her ankle meters above the ground, her sword slipped from her fingers and flipped end-over-end as it dropped. Perhaps it wasn't in her best interest to fight the thing, seeing as she would land on her head if she managed to get free, but she fought anyway, flailing her body this way and that. Several spells hit the beast as Gwen struggled and panted in exertion and fear, but they did nothing against its thick hide.

Completely unfazed by all efforts to get it to release her, the troll simply waggled its massive ears and brought her closer, peering at her with its tiny pig eyes. "Up, up, up," it grunted, and her heart skipped a beat when it tossed her straight up into the air.

The web of shadow-sludge caught her before she reached the pinnacle of her climb, and the tendrils came to life, slowly wrapping around her limbs and torso. Indistinguishable whispers began to echo in her ear.

_NO_! _NO. GET OFF. GET—GET…_

It was cold, it was slick like lantern oil, and it was _wrong_. It had no business touching her. None. None at all.

_Get away! _

Her terror made her body react, and she thought she heard herself scream, but her thoughts were steadily becoming languid, losing all lucidity and capacity for logic…

_Get—get away…_

The last thing she felt was the disgusting sludge sealing her mouth shut before the dark magic dragged her under.

~…~

Arthur would later deny that he was holding onto Merlin for dear life when it felt as though Kilgharrah's back dropped from beneath him. It wasn't that he was _scared_. No, of course he wasn't. An inferno raged around him, but he had complete faith in both Kilgharrah's flying abilities and Merlin's capacity to protect them from the fire. He just really did not like the feeling of his stomach leaving his body and falling, falling, falling…

Despite everything happening around him, he took the brief second to promise himself _never again. _It made him feel better, and it certainly made him feel better to realize that they'd be on the ground soon, actively _doing _something but staring at the ominous signs that the world was ending. That thought alone was enough to keep him from completely losing his mind. He'd have Excalibur in hand and a warlock, dragon, and great knight by his side, and he'd do as he said to Merlin before they left Livandir: he'd kick the bastards out of his kingdom.

He'd fight, and he'd win. For Camelot.

The flames parted as they dove, and though he saw glimpses of what they faced, Arthur was not truly intimidated. He knew the stakes. He knew what would happen if they failed, but it seemed that all his emotion, all his worry had been forgotten in favor of preparing for this last fight. Right now, all he wanted was for it to end, and end it he would.

All of his mental preparation, all of his sketches of plans and all of his strategy—all of it…_gone_—the moment he heard her scream.

His mind locked, and pushing Merlin's head out of his line of vision and ignoring his protest, he squinted ahead. "Guinevere."

"Arthur, listen to me," Merlin voice cut through his panic-induced haze. "There are Crocotta down there. They might be luring—"

"The mutts be damned, Merlin! My _wife _is down there!" Arthur yelled furiously, scanning the tangle of webbing, which snapped and writhed and reformed as they passed by. His eye caught where the conglomeration was thickest, where the tendrils sprouted like porcupine quills, but otherwise, too many things drew his eye, and his panic made it almost too hard to focus, to think, to breathe…

Kilgharrah, who had better eyes than the rest of them, suddenly growled, and since they were nearing the ground quickly, he was starting to pull out of his dive. "There!"

And suddenly Arthur was able to distinguish her in the layer below. Wrapped in a cocoon of shadow, Guinevere's prone form was unmistakable.

She had looked too far into the abyss.

Arthur did the only sane thing a man in his position would do. He forgot his plans, his strategies, and his logic. He forgot that demons were attacking his kingdom. He forgot his fear of heights, and he forgot that he was trying to deny that fear.

Drawing Excalibur, he launched himself off the back of the dragon.

It wasn't as though Merlin wouldn't follow him anyway.

~…~

And so Merlin did.

It wasn't as though he had much of a choice. Not only was his friend ensnarled by the black magic of the Other realm, but his best friend had also just jumped off a dragon. Of course he would follow. Even though they were rather near to the ground now, just above the last layer of sludgy shadow-web that arched above the Valley, and even though Kilgharrah's fire had mostly dissipated into the air by now, they were far from safe. They would die upon impact if they hit the ground. If they were lucky, they'd break their bones and _then _die when the demons down there devoured them alive.

And who _knows _what would happen if they touched those tendrils…

If Merlin weren't so terrified for the life of Gwen and Arthur, he would have thought something along the lines of: _I'm going to _kill _him. _

So yes, he jumped right after his king, manipulating the air around him so that he could protect himself and Arthur, who had the sense to hack at any shadows that neared them. They retreated immediately at Excalibur's touch.

"I want you to catch her, Merlin," Arthur yelled to him.

Eyes blazing gold, he had been struggling to orchestrate the howling winds to his will when he heard Arthur's command. Apparently, he had not been specific enough when he crafted the first spell, and another spell—a spell to slow them down—was just lingering at the tip of his tongue. "What are you—?"

He didn't know what happened, it happened so fast. Maybe he wasn't quick enough in his spell-casting; maybe they had been far closer to Gwen than he judged. Whatever happened, he knew that when one of those shadows got past his guard and brushed against him, his world went dark. His magic, smothered by the presence of the evil, faltered for the briefest second, and he couldn't breathe.

There had been no time…no time…

Arthur landed on the tangle of webbing that begun to thicken in order to support Gwen's body as it lugged her away—toward the giant hole in the realms—so it supported him just as well.

Just as the tendrils began to creep up Arthur's legs, he began to chop at the shadows holding her prisoner, and Merlin's magic flooded back. He tumbled past his friends, and all he could think to do was flip onto his back and focus all of his energy into a single thought: _protect. _

The magic exploded from him chaotically, eager to fulfill his command, and he heard Kilgharrah roaring his name above him. The dragon's power washed over him, as did quite a bit of foreign power from below.

He landed on his feet, and the murmurs of "Emrys" were enough to tell him who had had a hand in saving his life. The yips and grunts and screams that followed a resounding snarl and blast of fire from Kilgharrah, who was attacking from above, indicated that his back was protected, and he was unable to thank him or any of those who helped. Instead, his eyes remained skyward. Good thing, too. Gwen was soon cut lose, and as her body fell, Merlin followed her path with his hand, slowing her descent.

_Got her. _Arthur's relief upon hearing his voice in his mind was nearly palpable.

Gwen landed softly at his feet, and she blinked blearily at him. "Merlin?" she whispered. "What—?" Suddenly her eyes widened, and sitting straight up, she gasped, hand reaching up to cover her mouth.

Judging by her expression, he didn't look too great, but that was not a cause for concern right now.

Because Arthur hadn't jumped down yet.

Mind racing, he quickly helped her to her feet, and Gwaine, who had somehow dropped from Kilgharrah's back, came running up behind, along with a sorceress whose fierce hazel eyes only passed over him before locking on the queen. "I'll take Gwen. Go!" the knight ordered. "He's still up there!"

"What do you mean?" Gwen asked, her face horribly pale as Merlin eased her into Gwaine's arms. "Arthur's…"

"Go!" the knight said to Merlin again, interrupting Gwen. The sorceress, much to Merlin's shock, had already begun muttering apologies and words of healing to the queen, who looked as though she were about to pass out again. "We'll keep them off you."

After nodding his thanks and flashing his gaze across the hodge-podge of sorcerers, magical mercenaries, and renegade Druids that had seemingly banded together, he ran. He shot down everything that blocked his path and found Kilgharrah waiting for him. The dragon was hovering just above the ground, Morgana still limp in his claws.

"That was incredibly stupid of you, young warlock," the dragon chastised as the warlock used magic to propel himself into the air and grab onto one of his spines. "You realize you could have fought from my back?"

No, the thought really hadn't occurred to him, but he was sure that there were good reasons for _not _fighting from Kilgharrah's back. He'd think of them later, he was sure. "Priorities, Kilgharrah!" he snapped, fear lacing his tone. He had an awful feeling about this. "Arthur's in trouble, so you can yell at me later! Fly!"

~…~

Merlin couldn't have cast that spell at a more opportune time. His mind was just beginning to slip and his muscles were nearly unresponsive when he felt his warlock's magic washing over him, and whatever it was that Merlin did, it made the effects of the dark magic on his mind and ability to move disappear entirely.

Unfortunately, he couldn't say that the shadows had stopped crawling up his body, but he was grateful that he still had the chance to cut Guinevere free and that he still had his wits about him after it was done. He almost wished he had been unconscious at one point, though: despite his trust in Merlin, it nearly tore him apart to watch her just…_fall_.

Perspiration dotted his brow as he stared at the spot where she disappeared. _Why_ she was out here in the first place didn't matter so much as the fact that she was _safe, _and it was only after Merlin confirmed her safety via mind-speech that he began to move again.

He couldn't move much. His legs were already trapped, but it was _imperative _that his sword arm remained free, at least until he got out of this mess. He began to hack at said mess, which, for some reason, was more resilient to his blade than it had been mere minutes ago, and having released its previous prey, it seemed more persistent.

When whispers from the Other side, whispers so bleak and so cold Arthur felt Merlin's protective spell around his mind _shudder, _started to break through, his graceful, measured swings became a frantic flurry of slashing.

…_born of magic…_

…_Much better prize…_

He felt more than saw Merlin and Kilgharrah's attempts to help him. The fire and magic seemed to do little more than what Excalibur was doing.

…_forget the queen…_

…_We have THE king…_

…_The king once and future…_

The look on Merlin's face was haunting. It triggered a memory of the last time he had seen that look, and he fought harder because even though he was quickly tiring, Merlin, Gwen, the knights…his _people_ would never forgive him if he didn't.

…_look at the Emrys _struggle_…_

…_ignore him. This is the one we want…_

Gvarath eyes were on him. They were everywhere.

…_a fighter, this one…_

…_his soul…_

…_delicious…_

His sword arm, miraculously, was still free, as was a good deal of his upper body. Dignity was forgotten, and he fought with everything he had, especially when he saw where it was the embodiment of dark magic was dragging him off to.

…_born of magic…_

The ugly vase, bristling with evil, stood tall and proud, and just above it was the tear, wide and wanting.

~…~

Merlin yelled in frustration, pouring everything he had into his spells, but the results were hardly satisfactory. No, instead, it only made him angry and more aware of how exhausted and cold he was, and he—he…

He was _useless_.

"Why isn't it working?" Merlin asked Kilgharrah, whose flames were just as ineffective as his magic.

His magic had never failed him before. Not like this. Not when _Arthur _was in danger. Even when he was supposed to be under the control of a magic-suppressing drug, it had rose to the occasion, if a bit late to save Arthur from twenty-three lashes. He'd remember that number all his life, but at least his magic had done _something_. Of all the horrors and evils he'd faced, never once had it done _nothing_.

"This is more than dark magic," Kilgharrah murmured. "This is older than the Earth. We would be able to fight it otherwise."

"Then what the hell is it?"

"Evil."

Merlin was almost tempted to shoot the dragon a sarcastic retort, but instead he asked, "What do we do?" He could see the vessel just above the ridge, and even more disturbingly, he imagined that the tear above it was working itself into a _grin_. One shot of concentrated, pure magic was enough to tell him that the vase was protected from his powers. "What do we do? What do we do?"

That's when he remembered, and hope flared in his chest.

"Kilgharrah, get us as close as you can to the tear, somewhere we have clear sight of Arthur. Hurry!"

The dragon did as he was bid, though neither of them, being creatures of the Old Religion, took pleasure in getting anywhere near the thing that spewed an anti-dark-magic far older and wilder than the magic of the Earth. The moment he was near enough to the ground, Merlin slipped off the back of the dragon and raised his arms, gesturing for him to drop the still-unconscious witch.

Kilgharrah was keen to get rid of her. Morgana toppled limply out of the safety of his hold, black locks spilling over her face and shoulders. No sooner had Merlin settled her into the dirt than had he ordered, "Kilgharrah, go continue to try to free Arthur. I'll be fine!"

The dragon looked like he wanted to argue, but after surveying the warlock for a moment, he flew off, as commanded. Once he was gone, Merlin turned to Morgana and barked, "Áwace!" (2)

Her pale eyes blinked open far too slowly for Merlin's liking, but the emotions that flickered through her eyes upon seeing him were almost too fast for the warlock to register: confusion, relief, rage, hatred, fear, and finally…defeat.

"Merlin," she whispered, her voice cracking. All of her sneering, smugness, and superiority was nowhere to be seen.

"Look around, Morgana," he ordered, holding out an arm stepping aside to give her a clear view of the tear between realms and the shadows and shade that surrounded them. "Look at what you've done. The demon realm is spilling into this one. Is this what you wanted?" His tone was mercilessly harsh and hard, but when he saw her comply without so much as a smirk and look around with dawning horror, he almost felt sorry for her.

"Merlin…"

"Not now," Merlin commanded sternly. "You need to tell me how to stop it, Morgana."

A hint of brassiness flared in her eyes. "If you hadn't taken my magic, none of this would be happening!"

Merlin recoiled as though he'd been slapped, and after feeling a flash of overwhelming repugnance at her accusation, guilt fell hard on him. His gaze switched from her to Arthur, whose struggles were more pronounced than before, and swallowing thickly, he said, "We can point fingers all day, but in the end, you started this."

She did not deny it, and all of the fire in her eyes dwindled. "It wasn't supposed to come to this…"

"I know," Merlin said, a little sympathy trickling into his voice, "but I think that even if it did work in your favor, this power would have overcame you. That's not the point. I need to stop it, and I'm asking that you at least value your own life enough to give me the information I need!"

To her credit, she did not even look amused by his pleading. Instead, it appeared to terrify her. Eyes flickering about, Morgana's mouth worked around words, but Merlin would have none of that. "How do you destroy the vase?" Merlin demanded, desperation tearing his voice. "Please, Morgana!"

"I _can't_!" she cried. "I can't stop this! I don't know how."

She wasn't lying. No, her fear and vulnerability were too real, and with his last hope squashed, Merlin's heart plummeted to his feet. For a second, his eyes slid closed.

"I'm sorry."

If possible, his heart fell even further. He put her to sleep again almost absentmindedly, and turning away from the broken woman, he began to sprint toward the tear.

It seemed it was time to do something stupid.

The first stupid thing he did was trip. That cost him time, and the Gvarath seemed to find it comical, which was more degrading than begging to Morgana. In the end, he was glad he tripped, for when he fell, the philosopher's stone in his pocket jabbed into his thigh, giving him an idea. It was crazy, but it might just work.

It had to. There was no time for anything else.

Flipping over, he dug it out, and feeling a pang in his heart, an acknowledgment of all this stone meant and all that it had done, he whispered to it, "I have one more task for you."

Arthur's sword arm was losing mobility, he could see, and his blue eyes caught Merlin's just as the warlock turned the stone over in his hand. The king, close enough now to see what it was he was holding, knew immediately what he was planning and nodded as much as he was able.

So Merlin threw the stone with all his might into the tear, and once it slipped through, he raised his palm, commanding, "BRIC!" (3)

The agonized screeching that resulted was even louder than the sound of the stone releasing the rest of the Avalonian energy that it still contained in a single, glorious explosion. Red eyes flickered and died, demons all around began to whimper and cry, and the entire structure of shadows, from the arching buttresses and tangle of webbing to the funnel-cloud-like walls that trapped them in the Valley, _shifted_ and began to collapse…

Not quickly enough.

The winds howled, tearing branches and leaves from trees and whipping dirt into Merlin's eyes, but despite the lack of visibility and all the destruction occurring around him, he could see that Arthur was still trapped and that the Other realm was not quite ready to let him go.

"NO!" Merlin shouted, his magic rushing, rushing...

The king took a swing at the vessel, but his sword ricocheted off with such force that Excalibur was wrenched from his hand…

…but in the process, Arthur's elbow jammed into the vase. That simple touch, of _all _things, knocked it over, and the moment it hit the rocky ground, it shattered into a hundred shards.

Instantaneously, the shrieking increased, and the shadows writhed, losing all corporeality and dissipating into like smoke into the sunshine that burst into the Valley. Arthur collapsed to the ground across from Merlin with an _oomph_, and as the tear sealed closed, the shards of the vessel crumbled to dust, and the stone—his stone—popped back out and rolled to him.

The only sound that followed was the scampering of the monsters that had homes on this plane. Now that the vessel was gone and no longer held any attraction for them, they realized that they actually _had_ homes to return to at all. Flocks upon flocks of wyvern passed overhead, all heading back to the mountains, where they belonged.

Cheers and whoops from the group of magicians below soon followed, and after staring at each other, Merlin and Arthur flopped backwards and started laughing hysterically. As though adding kindling to fire, each man's laughter only encouraged the other to laugh harder. The warlock and king laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks, and as the hysterics died down, Merlin's fingers closed over the stone. Even though it was empty, he clenched it tight.

They could finally go _home_.

* * *

><p>(1) Translation: DefendEnclose/Ward off!

(2) Translation: Awake!

(3) Translation: Break/shatter/burst/tear/injure/curtail/violate/destroy!

AN: You cannot believe how many fantasy/sci-fi allusions are in here: the troll scene from _Sorcerer's Stone_, the tear in reality (crack in the wall) from the Ponds' season of Doctor Who mixed with the Veil from 4x01/4x02 of Merlin, Greek mythology, the symbiote (aka Venom stuff) from Spiderman 3…. A line inspired by How to Train Your Dragon dialogue is buried in this chapter, too. The description of the ogre in the previous chapter was inspired by T.A. Barron's _Lost Years of Merlin_ series. Kudos to anyone who caught all those parallels! I own none of them.

An epilogue will be upcoming in the next few days. I have things to tie up, and of course I want an excuse to write Kay one last time.


	30. Epilogue: Stay Gold

Disclaimer: IDOM

AN: And so it ends. After a grand total of 2 years and 2 weeks, this is _it. _To those who have been here since the beginning and to all those who have begun to read since, I cannot thank you enough for your companionship throughout the struggle and battle to finish this epic of a fic. Without you guys, this wouldn't have been possible.

I hope you guys like it. :)

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><p><em>"I've been thinking about it, and that poem, that guy that wrote it, he meant you're gold when you're a kid, like green. When you're a kid everything's new, dawn. It's just when you get used to everything that it's day. Like the way you dig sunsets, Pony. That's gold. Keep that way, it's a good way to be […] And don't be so bugged over being a greaser. You still have a lot of time to make yourself be what you want. There's still lots of good in the world."<em>

_…_

_"Stay gold, Ponyboy, stay gold."_

-Johnny, The Outsiders (S.E. Hinton)

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><p><strong>Epilogue: Stay Gold<strong>

The Camelot they left behind was not the same Camelot they returned to.

The group that had trudged back from the Valley had not only included the king and queen, warlock, and knight. No, even though most of Morgana's sorcerers decided to flee in order to escape the king's judgment, a rather large amount had remained to greet him and his Court Sorcerer. As it turned out, the ones who had stayed behind had been a part of an underground mercenary band that originated out far, far to the west. Their leader, the woman who had been so protective of Gwen, had said to Arthur and Merlin, "We might have fought only for Morgana's gold, but it was the queen who won our loyalty."

Arthur had been downright furious at Gwen for putting herself in harm's way, but Merlin had been able to tell that his pride far surpassed his anger.

Nearly fifty magicians had knelt, renounced their previous occupation, and offered their allegiance that day, and after a scan from the resident _aura-_reader—he could not be too cautious—they had been welcomed but given no promises. Prisoners, free men…no status had been placed upon them. The mercenaries had not cared so much about that: they had only expressed a desire to help where they could, and the king and queen had not denied them that, especially not after Merlin had seen that their intentions were pure.

And so it was that the group had checked for survivors and found themselves traveling toward Camelot. Kilgharrah had flown ahead to deliver the news that the battle was won, the witch was defeated, and that the king, Merlin Emrys, and their retinue were returning to the city. The dragon had returned with an escort that included Elyan, who had been beside himself with fear for his sister.

A lot of the conversations that needed to be had had to wait—Gwen, in particular, had her compassionate and intelligent eyes trained on Arthur and Merlin, as though attempting to glean their entire story from their most simple movements—and aside from the exchange of battle reports and inquires about health (because most of them looked _awful _and quite a few of their original retinue were _missing_), it had been a relatively silent trip back to the castle.

Or so Merlin had thought. He couldn't be sure: his mind had been off in another world for most of the trip back, after all.

He _had _remembered climbing the last hill, though. Seeing Camelot's towers, just over the rise in the hill, had been like seeing them for the first time. Sure, they might have been smoking and crumbling a bit, but they were beautiful.

Stepping _into_ the city—he would _never _forget.

The streets had been cleared of wounded and dead, and now that the sun had since begun to set, torches lined the way. Though there were plenty mourning the loss of life and livelihood, those who were not needed in the infirmaries and who were not with lost loved ones gathered along the streets to watch them pass by to the castle. Druids with bloody lips and noses leaned upon the shoulders of spearmen, archers, and knights and vise versa. Village-folk intermingled with noblemen and sorcerers, and they shared their experience of the battle with each other, whether they had magic or not.

There was something in the air, something that cast an atmosphere of fulfillment that surpassed even the overwhelming gratitude of the crowd that awaited them. It was not so much the sound of their cheers as it was the sight of them standing _together._

Even Arthur, who was well adapted to remaining stoic in overwhelming situations, had an expression of complete awe on his face that almost rivaled Merlin's. When he, his queen, and his knights Sir Gwaine and Elyan turned to Camelot's stunned and touched Court Sorcerer and _beamed_, those near enough to witness the exchange between them would tell others that it was like seeing the sunrise at dusk.

That sunrise was all the more brilliant when their smiles turned upon the people, sorcerers, and fighters.

Arthur would have to prepare for an announcement for them—about the battle, about Camelot's repair, about his sister, who was being smuggled into the city under the guise of a glamour, and about the thanks that the Pendragons owed to those who died or survived this day—but that would have to wait for the morrow. The funeral pyres would have to wait for the morrow just as well.

For today, they walked down the fire-lit streets and drank their fill of the celebratory and free-spirited atmosphere. Upon reaching the castle, all Merlin could recall was being ushered in by a fussy Gaius, getting thrown into a bath by some servants, and then allowing himself to be taken into the infirmary with an equally clean Arthur and Gwaine, who had been submitted to the same treatment as Merlin had been. Workers and healers bustled about them, leading them to beds to be cared for. Gwen, who had already been looked after by the mercenary sorceress Elaine, flitted between the three men.

When maids and Druids alike bowed and expressed well-wishes and thanks to both Arthur _and _Merlin, who was blushing at the attention and staring at all the non-magical people that had once done their utmost to avoid eye contact with him, the king had enough energy in him to tease, "I told you that they'd begin to trust you after you saved them from a few more invasions (1)."

"This was only one invasion. One _insane_ invasion," Merlin murmured drowsily. He had pointedly ignored Gaius and Gwen's orders and decided to get up from his own bed, so that he could slump down beside his king. Arthur's bed had been pushed against a wall, so both men could easily sit side-by-side and lean against the stonework as they surveyed the room. It was strangely comfortable, and the warlock's eyes slid closed. "And I didn't save them alone."

Arthur's sleepy chuckling was the last thing he heard before falling into a deep, desperately needed sleep.

~…~

"Incoming!"

The person entering Merlin's chambers had just enough time to register the warning, back up, and slam the door shut before the strangely crafted bolt sank into the thick wood with a resounding _thud_. Merlin cursed, glaring at the contraption he was currently fiddling with.

"Arthur, I _told _you to _listen _to my door when it tells you to come back later!" he berated as he unstrapped the leather around his forearm and tossed the still-malfunctioning article onto his messy worktable. "I'm experimenting, and I don't want to hear you complain about the last time you decided to sit in when I was messing around with mag—"

He hadn't looked up in all the time that his visitor cautiously inched the door back open, but upon hearing a burst of snickering from someone who most certainly _wasn't _Arthur, Merlin cut off his tirade, flicked his gaze upward, and blinked in surprise, a grin broadening over his face.

"Kay!"

In the few months that had passed since the debacle with Morgana and her demon army, the young man had healed and recovered. It hadn't been easy—learning how to exist and get by with only one hand—but Kay was a stubborn ass and never once backed down from the challenge. A part of what drove him so hard was his hatred of being treated as a cripple for his disability, but he had to learn come to terms with the fact that he could no longer do things with the same efficiency he once did.

Even so, Kay seemed immensely happy. Since deemed healthy by Escetia's physician, he had become something of an ambassador between King Lot and Arthur's court. The arrangement was brilliant for the young man, who, naturally, had close ties to both kingdoms, and he had no regrets splitting his time between the two places.

"Is it safe to come in now?" Kay jested as he stepped lightly into the room.

Ignoring the knight's rhetorical question, the warlock leapt over a pile of books (but not before ducking under a few floating and half-completed projects that he'd sent up into the air in order to make room for other things), and he greeted his friend with a handshake. "When did you get back?" he asked enthusiastically.

"I've been back for a few hours. More than a few, if truth be told. Before coming to the citadel, I stopped at Iseldir's camp to see how Morgana was faring. She's quite well, if you're wondering. She was in one of her unresponsive and quiet moods, but the children seem to cheer her."

Merlin nodded, silently pleased. He, Arthur, and even Guinevere tried to visit her every so often. Some days she'd be receptive, and other days, not so much. It was on one of those "other days" that Iseldir had told them all to keep their distance for a while. Merlin, the cause of her more violent outburst that day, had spent many a sleepless night since wondering if her sanity would ever repair itself, but this news rekindled some hope. He'd noticed that Morgana was almost like her old self when the children were around. They truly brought out the best in her.

"Anyway," Kay continued, "Arthur sent me to drag you out of here so that you can actually socialize with more than just your dusty, old spell books and nasty potions." When Merlin scowled, Kay raised his hands in defense. "His words, not mine! He also gave me strict orders to ignore your door when I came to tell you that you're supping with us—'_no arguments_.'" The sudden impersonation of Arthur's voice made Merlin roll his eyes and snort. "You know," Kay added conversationally, "I think it has gotten more rude since I've last been here."

"That's because people continuously disrespect it," Merlin deadpanned.

Quirking a brow and smirking cockily, Kay asked, "And I suppose shooting a crossbow bolt into it _wasn't _disrespectful?"

"It's not a crossbow bolt; its—" Merlin's eyes suddenly widened, and shuffling inconspicuously backwards to hide the yet-to-be-completed project from sight, he fixated an innocent expression on his face. "My door _likes_ it when I shoot bolts into it, Kay. What door doesn't?"

The door seemed to find his sarcasm offensive, and the butt of the dagger-bolt that had once been embedded in the wood nearly hit Merlin in the back of the head.

He was just about to tell the ungrateful thing off when Kay threw back his head and laughed. Slinging his handless arm around Merlin's shoulders, he said, "I've missed you, Merlin. I've been gone too long. Not long enough, I fear, to forget how to tell when you're hiding something." Inquisitive teal eyes shot toward the cluttered table. "I'm curious now."

Before Merlin could open his mouth to protest or even think to use magic, Kay had slinked toward the table, expertly maneuvering through the mess, and of course, being Kay, he immediately found what it was that the warlock was trying to hide.

"What is this?" the knight asked as the warlock came up from behind him.

_Nice job, Merlin_, the warlock chided himself. "It was _supposed_ to be a surprise," he groaned. He picked up the tangle of leather and metal gently, and after seeing the blank and confused look on Kay's face, Merlin tried again, "It's for you."

"_Me_?"

"Yes, you!" Merlin exclaimed enthusiastically. "After you recovered from your injury and took up the sword to re-hone your skills, Arthur commented one day that it was like you—you were only half-alive on the field, and it was not because you were any less talented with a sword than you were before." Kay's face had become guarded, and Merlin was quick to add, "No, it was because you weren't fighting the way we know you love to: with a hidden dagger up your other sleeve. We decided to change that."

That seemed to stun the older man, and he spluttered, "Wha—What?"

"C'mere," Merlin said, gesturing for his left arm. Kay gave it over in a daze, and the warlock began strapping the thing to his forearm. "We designed it. Well, Arthur and Leon had quite a bit to do with making my more inventive ideas a reality. Amazing how much those two know about the mechanics of a crossbow, which was our model, in a sense. Their knowledge was incredibly helpful."

"…Merlin…"

"It took quite a bit of trial and error," Merlin proceeded to ramble, "but Elyan and Lancelot forged the moving bits and the dagger-bolts, and surprisingly, Gwaine knew a lot about working leather. He and Percival did that bit. They've all finished their part, obviously, but there are a few things not quite working on my end, as you can see from the dagger-bolt in the door. The spells—"

"…Merlin…"

"It's a bit complicated to put on now," he mumbled suddenly in mild frustration, readjusting a strap to fit Kay's arm, "but don't worry; I'm working on that. It should obey your command and attach itself snuggly and comfortably to you by the time I'm done with it. Should be near impossible to destroy too—"

"…Merlin…"

The warlock finally looked up and saw that Kay was staring at the engineered dagger-bolt scabbard on his lower arm and how the moving pieces fit together. The look on his face was one of complete and utter joy. "It's supposed to extend and retract a dagger?" he breathed, his right hand's fingers lightly brushing over the dark leather.

"That's the idea!" Merlin beamed. "Once I get it working properly, that is. The only problem is that I'm not sure I can figure out a way to recreate the fancy wrist movements you used to do, but I still have—_oomph_."

The force of Kay's embrace knocked the breath out of Merlin, and if the knight's eyes were glistening when he drew back, the warlock said not a word. Instead, he waited and watched as Kay, now as excited as a puppy, examined the device further.

"This is _incredible!_" he exclaimed, eyes alight with possibilities and strategies. "I can't—I can't believe you—"

"Shut up," Merlin scoffed. "Of course we did."

"_Thank you_."

"You're welcome. You just have to promise me that you'll at least _pretend _to be surprised when we present the finished product." He rolled his eyes and began to remove the gift from Kay's arm once again. "The others will never forgive me if they know that I spoiled it."

The knight's cheeky smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Well, we wouldn't want that now, would we?"

"No," Merlin said as he carefully placed the weapon on the table. "We wouldn't want to keep Arthur waiting any longer either, especially when there's probably food—"

"MERLIN!"

"Speak of the devil!" Merlin said cheerily, leading Kay out of the door and meeting Arthur just outside his chambers. Of course, his chamber door decided to slam closed the moment both men were both clear of the threshold.

"Good riddance," the door spat. "Mangy magic man."

"Shut up," Merlin retorted, just as Arthur began to ask them what the _hell _had been taking them so long.

Somehow, the subject of his chamber door took precedence over their tardiness, and as they descended the stairs and emerged into the busy corridors—there was a conference with the surrounding kingdoms approaching, and the preparations were in full swing—the king goaded, "See, I _knew _it. I knew that you completely lost control of the enchanted talking door. It even insults _you _now_._"

"Hey! Everyone else gets new insults _daily_. 'Mangy magic man' is all it ever calls me," Merlin protested loudly. "It's an endearment!"

Arthur gave his friend an incredulous look and looked about ready to respond, but it was the handless man who prevented him from doing so. "Look at that."

Merlin and Arthur followed Kay's gaze toward the people that easily overheard their Court Sorcerer's strange statement and had trouble hiding their amusement as they continued on their way.

"In Uther's Camelot…the word "magic" would have sent people running and screaming," Kay mused. "Even when I came back—the first time, just after you two had lifted the ban and Arthur became king—they might have accepted your decree, but I had seen how uncomfortable some were. Others had been afraid and angry, and far too many would hesitate to meet your eyes, Merlin. Now look at them."

And so they did. They looked, and they saw.

Kay was right. Despite the signs of slow improvement the months before the battle of demons, there had always been a lingering cloud of discomfort that hung low over Camelot. Suspicions had fouled the freedom that sorcerers should have been able to experience, and the façade of "acceptance" had been thin in some places. Most people had been cautious, and gods knew that some of those people had also been jumpy and nervous around Merlin and any other magic-user that strolled by, no matter how accepting they were of Arthur's decree that magic was free.

Now?

The tales had spread like wildfire, and everyone who was anyone knew what had happened in Escetia and the Valley that day. Kay's part in it all, miraculously, remained a secret, but everything else was _definitely_ not a secret. There was not a single person that did not accredit Merlin Emrys for the witch Morgana's ultimate defeat. The jeering had ceased, and even the most skeptical of Uther's regime had softened. Lords and townspeople alike sought him out now—to ask questions about magic, to ask for advice and assistance—and none of them shied away from him or his brethren.

Children of both peoples played together in the streets. Sorcerers were welcomed into Camelot's army with open arms, and all doors remained open. Neighbors turned to neighbors when in need, and those who were once enemies became friends. Those who had once feared their budding powers no longer subdued them, and some came from all over the kingdom to seek tutelage in the art of sorcery. Magic was _everywhere_, and it made the marketplace and castle more colorful and lively than ever.

"Things have really changed," Arthur said, pride coloring his tone.

And so they have, as it had been prophesized all along.

"It seems," Merlin added, his golden heart glowing with elation as he considered all that had happened since he first heard _the _prophecy, since meeting Arthur, since revealing his magic… "It seems that prejudice was truly the least of our worries."

**~THE END~**

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><p>(1) See chapter titled "Shattered Glass" for the initial mention of this quote<p>

AN: I just started tearing up a little staring at that "THE END." Holy cow. It is finally _complete._ I can hardly believe it!

I once that said that once I finished this fic, I'd be done with Prophesized, but who knows? After a good long break, I might just miss Kay far too much and cave. Oneshots set within this universe are far more likely than anything else, though. ;)

Future projects may take some time, considering my new resolution to write a good chunk of stories _before _posting, but never fear! I plan to write a sequel to "The First of Me," "Only Friend," and perhaps even "Holly Leaves." A BigBang-like challenge is happening at The Heart of Camelot as well, so there's yet another one. I won't be gone long, I promise. :D

Again, thank you! A thousand times, thank you! *hugs*

Oz out.


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